Daphne Greengrass, Side Character
by LinzRW
Summary: Daphne Greengrass is on a quest to be the main character of her own life for once, but that's easier said than done. Includes: conspiracy theories, evil plotting, broken friendships, mended friendships, a Slytherin revolution, and sassy Potter. OotP, HBP, and DH.
1. My Friends Are All Swindlers

**A Quick Note Before You Begin: **

**Slytherin always gets a bad rep because the HP books are told from the perspective of characters who dislike Slytherin, and many of the teachers often participate in the negative treatment of Slytherins. Yes, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy were all pretty terrible people in the books, but there are plenty of Slytherin side characters who we never get to see because Harry never interacts with them. So that gave me the idea to write this story. This is the story of the Slytherin side characters: Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Tracey Davis, and Pansy Parkinson. They are cunning, ambitious, resourceful, self-preserving, and loyal. They are Slytherin in both the good and the bad. And I hope I do them justice.**

**Also, I like to pretend that Cursed Child doesn't exist. I'm still in denial that it's considered canon.**

**I appreciate all reviews. Ask me questions, tell me about incongruencies, inform me of typos, guess what's going to happen next, complain about my portrayal of the characters - I love all reviews. You can review every chapter (much appreciated), you can review the last chapter, you can review only the exciting chapters, but please review!**

* * *

**Chapter One: My Friends Are All Swindlers**

On the Hogwarts Express, I came to a realization: I was just Random Side Character #214 in the life of Harry Potter. Or, at least, that's how it felt sometimes. My actual name was Daphne Greengrass, and this year, my fifth year, I was determined to have a life separate from Harry Potter's existence.

The train rattled on the tracks as I stared out the window at the rolling, hillside scenery and darkening, blue sky. There wasn't much more time before we reached Hogwarts and the welcoming feast. I glanced around the compartment of the Hogwarts Express where three of my fellow fifth years were lounging about. Sitting on the opposite side of the compartment was Tracey Davis (I will dub her Random Side Character #215 in the life of Harry Potter), a girl with dark, curly hair and a heart-shaped face. She was playing some sort of card game with Theodore Nott (Random Side Character #216), a weedy-looking boy with light-brown hair and a height he hadn't quite grown into yet. The final person in our compartment was Blaise Zabini (Random Side Character #217), a tall, dark-haired, and devastatingly handsome Italian-Ethiopian who was reading the frightfully dull businesses section of the _Daily Prophet_. I'd known these three since our first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when we were all sorted into Slytherin.

In my past four years at Hogwarts, I'd learned a few things about the school. Firstly, being a Slytherin means that people assume I'm a pureblood witch who hates muggles and is destined to be evil. Secondly, we will never have a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for more than one year. Thirdly, we are all side characters of varying importance in the life of Harry Potter.

I'm not joking. First year, Potter and his friends were the reason Slytherin lost the House Cup last minute (blatant favoritism on Dumbledore's part). Second year, Dumbledore canceled final exams after Potter killed the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets (I know for a fact that Tracey was relying on those exams to bring her grades up). Third year, we all had to sleep on the floor of the Great Hall because Sirius Black (who, according to Nott's father, was never a Death Eater) was supposedly trying to kill Potter. Fourth year, we all had to put up with Potter being the fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament (even though it's clearly a _TRI_wizard Tournament).

What I'm trying to say is that sometimes it feels like the world revolves around Harry freaking Potter.

"Just once," I said aloud, "I'd like to get through a school year where Harry Potter doesn't cause trouble around final exams."

Tracey and Nott barely acknowledged my words, focused on their card game. They'd heard my theories one too many times before. Blaise, however, glanced up from his paper with raised eyebrows and asked, "What brought this up?"

"Just thinking." I shrugged. "I'm sick of the Pottercentricism of this school. Why couldn't I have been born a few years earlier so I wouldn't have to deal with all this?"

"The school isn't Pottercentric," said Tracey.

"Well, I don't know," said Blaise. "Apparently, Daphne spends her free time thinking about him."

Tracey let out a sigh of exasperation and tossed her cards down on the seat. "You win. I can never beat you."

Nott grinned. Personally, I thought it was Tracey's fault for agreeing to play with him in the first place. The only person who could beat Nott in games was Blaise and that was because Blaise cheated.

"I only talk about Potter so I can complain," I said. I turned sideways on the compartment seat, propping my legs up on the cushions and leaning back against Blaise's left arm. "Where's Pansy? She's always happy to bitch about Potter with me."

"She's serving prefect duties with Draco," said Nott, shoving the deck of cards back into his bookbag.

"Pansy's a prefect?" I asked.

"I know," said Tracey. "I always figured it'd be you."

"And I always figured it'd be you."

Tracey and I stared at one another for a moment and then burst out laughing. The image of either of us being prefects was ridiculous, but both of us would've been a better choice than Pansy Parkinson. The other two girls, Georgina Runcorn and Millicent Bulstrode, were fools, and when I thought about it, the fifth-year Slytherin girls really lacked good prefect candidates.

"What was Dumbledore thinking?" asked Tracey.

"And Snape. You know Pansy is going to abuse her power like no one else." I rolled my eyes. "The girl's great for a good laugh, but she has no common sense."

"Especially where Draco's concerned," said Tracey. "Did she tell you? Ever since she was Draco's date for the Yule Ball last year, she's decided to renew her efforts in seducing him."

I shook my head at the horror of the whole situation. I'd nearly fainted when I'd received the letter from her over the summer saying that this was the year she was going to claim Draco Malfoy's heart. "After four years, she still thinks she has a fighting chance."

Blaise scoffed, and I dug my elbow into his ribs to let him know that, as my pillow, he wasn't allowed to move. He whacked the side of my head with his newspaper.

"Draco has no interest in her," said Nott.

"We know," said Tracey. "We keep telling her that, but she's convinced he's her Prince Charming."

"Prince Charming?" repeated Blaise.

"Her perfect man who will save her and sweep her off her feet," explained Tracey. "She wants a prince in velvet robes with a white horse and the magical abilities of Cyprian."

Blaise snorted. He, like the rest of us, knew how impossible it was for Draco to care about anyone whose last name wasn't Malfoy.

"Cyprian was a creep," said Nott. "He was a genius, sure, but he was also a pervert and his experiments usually involved human sacrifice."

Tracey pulled a face. "Why are all the weird ones in Slytherin?"

"Because the weird ones end up being evil," I said, "and we have to uphold Salazar Slytherin's reputation."

Blaise groaned. "Not this again."

"Since most Slytherins are perfectly normal people who just happen to value ambition, the Sorting Hat has to throw in an evil nutter now and again to keep up the reputation. And while we wait for our next evil nutter to come along, we have pureblood elitists to tide us over. The rest of us sit back while they do all the work, and we keep up our reputation as the house named after the bloke who kept a basilisk in a chamber beneath a school full of kids."

Nott muttered something that sounded like "extreme form of punishment" but I couldn't be certain.

Blaise was reading the business section of the _Prophet _again. I'd be damned if that article had anything more interesting to say than I did.

"The 'all Slytherins are purebloods' is a bunch of hippogriff shite," I continued. "Wizards have been around for thousands of years, and there's a limited amount of us. Every line that claims to be pure undoubtedly has muggles and mudbloods on the tree. I mean, my family claims to be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but I know for a fact that I have a great-grandmother who's muggleborn and a great-great-grandfather who's a muggle. Which actually makes me a thirteen-sixteenths blood."

Blaise had listened to my rants about the Slytherin image before (the pureblood rants usually happened during our Arithmancy class, in which we were the only two Slytherin students and I didn't have to worry about making any enemies in my common room); Tracey and Nott, however, seemed a little surprised by the revelation of my thirteen-sixteenths blood status.

"Blood status is such a ridiculous notion," I said. "And it's not like I get special treatment in the Slytherin common room for being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. What about you, Nott? Any skeletons in your family closet?"

We all glanced over expectantly at Nott, who looked uncomfortable with the question. Like me, his family was supposed to be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, whose bloodlines had remained pure throughout the centuries. However, after some awkward shifting about and running his fingers through his hair, he said, "I have a muggle for a great-great-grandfather."

"Feels good to get that off your chest?" I asked with a little laugh. "Join the club. Those great-great-grandfathers are scandalous."

Nott scowled. "There are some things you don't talk about in my dad's circles."

"It's not that bad," said Tracey with a shrug. "You lot know that my mum's a muggleborn. I'm certainly not getting any special treatment in the common room unless it's the wrong kind." We all winced. For the most part, the other Slytherin students didn't care, but there were some arseholes like Graham Montague, Draco Malfoy, and Sadie Baldock who decided that made Tracey less a Slytherin than the rest of us. Nott chased them away if they got too annoying.

"What about you, Blaise?" asked Tracey, her voice a little too cheerful to be true.

"I don't know about my biological father," said Blaise. "Never met him and my mum doesn't talk about him."

"Which means you could be a half-blood," said Tracey.

Blaise shrugged, which caused his shoulder to dig into the back of my head.

"Ouch." I hit Blaise's chest with my left hand. "Stay still."

"I'm not your pillow," said Blaise.

"But you're so comfy."

Blaise gave up on me and turned to Nott. He flipped to a certain page of the paper, and then held it up for Nott to see one of the article titles. Blaise asked, "So is it true? Is Harry Potter lying and Dumbledore's a crackpot, or is the Ministry lying and You-Know-Who has really returned?"

"Call him the Dark Lord, Blaise," I said. "We have to keep up our future Death Eaters image."

Blaise ignored me (nothing new), Nott shot me a scathing look (also nothing new), and the two continued to look over the article. As the only one of our group to be the child of a Death Eater, Nott kept the rest of us up-to-date when it came to the Dark Lord. Despite being supposed future Death Eaters, Blaise, Tracey, Pansy, and I had no connections to those circles. Blaise's mum was an Italian seductress who was on her sixth husband (an Egyptian business tycoon), Pansy's parents were aurors who were paid to catch Death Eaters, my parents were divorced and neutral on the whole mudblood debate, and Tracey's mum was a Hufflepuff.

"I'm not supposed to know most of the things I tell you lot," grumbled Nott. "I'd be in serious trouble if anyone found out."

"But who else is going to keep us up to date on the Dark Lord gossip?" asked Tracey. "Malfoy?"

I nodded. "What kind of Slytherins would we be if we didn't know what was going on with our future career path? We have to keep up our image."

"Just don't go calling it our 'future career path' in front of some Gryffindors," said Tracey. "Some idiots might believe you."

"How did you even get started on the Slytherin image thing?" asked Nott.

"Blaise and I overheard Ernie Macmillan in Arithmancy saying that all Slytherins were either future evil villains or future evil henchmen."

Nott scowled.

"Ernie Macmillan's a prick," said Tracey.

I grinned. "Three sickles says he's a prefect this year."

"Not taking that bet," said Nott.

"Me neither," added Tracey.

I elbowed Blaise, which earned me another smack on the side of the head with the_ Daily Prophet_.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" asked Blaise. "Of course I'm not taking the bet."

Just then, the compartment door opened, revealing the pug-nosed Pansy Parkinson with the green and silver prefect badge glimmering on her chest. With long, brown hair and a heart-shaped face, Pansy was one of the prettiest girls in our year. The only problem was she had a horrible personality to go with it. Don't get me wrong, Pansy was a good friend; she just happened to be the perfect image of a bitchy Slytherin elitist. As proven by the first thing she said when she entered the compartment:

"Can you believe that mudblood Granger is a prefect as well? And here I thought this was a respectable position."

"Dumbledore loves mudbloods, half-bloods, purebloods, and whatever-bloods all the same," said Nott. "Are you really surprised?"

Pansy sighed with more dramatic flair than necessary. "No. But I had hoped."

I moved my legs and shifted back to an upright position so that Pansy could take the seat next to me.

"Didn't you hear?" I asked, peering at the headlines of the_ Daily Prophet_ over Blaise's shoulder. "Dumbledore's a crackpot old fool."

"I know, I know." Pansy folded her arms over her chest and scowled. "I just can't stand that Granger. I heard rumors last year that she was shagging both Weasley and Potter in the broom cupboard on the second floor."

Blaise made a sound that was somewhere between a choke and a laugh, while I giggled until a stitch formed in my side. Tracey and Nott had to lean on each other as they laughed.

"Goody-two-shoes Granger?" asked Tracey. "With not one, but two boys? It will never happen."

"I'm just—" The fit of laughter took me again, and I buried my face in Blaise's shoulder. "Bloody hell. It hurts to laugh. Make it stop."

Blaise pushed my head away from his shoulder and glanced over at Pansy. "Who told you that rumor?"

Pansy frowned. "During the Yule Ball, I overheard Padma Patil telling her sister that their dates had gone off—probably to shag Hermione Granger in some broom cupboard."

"Oh yeah," said Tracey. "Jessica told me that Padma told her that Weasley and Potter were pretty inattentive dates during the Yule Ball. But then Parvati met a nice Beauxbatons boy, so it turned out all right for the twins."

"Ah, I haven't laughed that long in a good while," I said, settling back in my seat.

"So who else has been named prefect?" asked Nott.

"Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott for Hufflepuff," said Pansy, looking upwards as she tried to remember. "Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw. And—you'll never believe this—Ron Weasley is the other Gryffindor prefect."

"You're kidding," I said, genuinely shocked. Potter's red-haired sidekick was the last person I'd peg as the Gryffindor male prefect. I would've guessed Neville Longbottom over him.

"What about Potter?" asked Tracey.

"Not there." Pansy was practically glowing with delight. "Draco and I were laughing so hard when we realized that Dumbledore had chosen Weasley over Potter."

"Maybe the_ Daily Prophet_ is right," murmured Nott. "Maybe Dumbledore really has cracked."

"No way," I said. "You forget how Pottercentric this school is."

Blaise groaned, Nott sighed, Tracey rolled her eyes, and Pansy looked at me in confusion.

I ignored my so-called friends' reactions and spoke to Pansy alone. "Dumbledore loves Potter. There is no way Dumbledore chose Weasley over Potter simply because he thought Weasley would make a better prefect. I bet you there's some convoluted thought going on here where Dumbledore believes that being a prefect will slow down Potter's save-the-world tendencies or where Dumbledore believes Potter is above the rules or where Dumbledore believes Potter's life is just too hectic to throw prefect duties on top of everything else."

Blaise tugged on a stand of my ash-blonde hair. "One of these days, your crackpot theories are going to get you into trouble."

I slapped his hand away from my hair and then grinned at him. "But that's okay, because you'll be there to bail me out."

"Unfortunately."

* * *

The train arrived at the station around six o'clock, and there was the usual clamor for everyone to get their luggage and get to the platform. When I had my trunk and the cage containing my horned owl, I hopped off the train and waited for the others. Tracey was right behind me, carrying her over-sized trunk, backpack, bookbag, and a gray owl.

"Merlin's beard," muttered Tracey, "I hate the rush. It's not a race to get the Great Hall. The feast doesn't start until everyone's seated, you know, so it doesn't matter if we get off first or last."

"Yes," I said. "But it doesn't matter if we're seated near the treacle tart or not."

Halfway through my first year at Hogwarts, I'd realized that the plates of treacle tart always appeared at the same places along the Slytherin table. And since I had an unquenchable addiction to said tart, I always made sure that we were seated around one of the spots where the pudding materialized. Every year, Pansy warned me I would end up fat, but I knew she was a heathen who didn't understand the importance of treacle tart.

"Get of my way, newt-face! I'm a prefect!"

Speaking of Pansy, the girl was pushing her way through a crowd of third-year Ravenclaws. She had taken her dark hair out of its ponytail—which made her look even prettier than before—and the third-year Ravenclaw boys she had just shoved out of her way were looking at her with open-mouthed awe. Sometimes, the world just wasn't fair.

"You really shouldn't abuse your prefect privileges like that," said Tracey when Pansy reached us.

"Getting to boss around third years is part of the privilege," said Pansy. "They were just standing in a group in the middle of the platform like they're so important that the rest of us have to move for them."

Eventually, one learned it was best not to argue with Pansy. Instead of commenting, I looked around and asked, "Where's Blaise and Nott?"

"Draco caught sight of them when we were getting off the train," said Tracey. "He's probably bragging about his new prefect powers."

"Draco?" asked Pansy, running a hand through her hair. "Where is he?"

Tracey and I exchanged grimaces.

"I don't know how to say this gently," said Tracey, resting a hand on Pansy's shoulder, "but Draco Malfoy isn't interested in you."

"There he is!" squeaked Pansy, who hadn't heard to a word Tracey had said.

We watched as Pansy shoved her way across the platform to where the tall, thin Draco Malfoy stood, flanked by his minions (I mean, friends) Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Draco was wearing his usual I'm-better-than-thou smirk as he spoke to Blaise and Nott. To anyone who didn't know Blaise and Nott, they looked as though they were interested in what Draco had to say, but I could see the glaze in Nott's eyes that meant he was thinking about something else and the arrogant twitch in Blaise's lips that meant he bored with the conversation.

With the exception of Pansy, our group had always had a semi-friendly semi-you-annoy-us relationship with Draco's group. Draco didn't like Tracey because her mother had been a Hufflepuff. He endured Blaise because of how rich Ms. Zabini was. He tried to get along with Nott because their fathers were both Death Eaters. And he hated me because I'd once referred to him as a "stuck-up blond rodent". That was shortly after not-Mad-Eye Moody turned him into a ferret, so he was very touchy about the subject at the time. Pansy was the only one of our group that Draco liked and that was only because she followed him around like a love-struck puppy.

I think part of the reason Pansy had a crush on Draco was because he was the cutest Slytherin boy in our year, and as the best-looking girl and the best-looking boy, she thought they made a natural couple. Then again, maybe I was wrong—maybe Pansy actually liked Draco for his sparkling personality. I'd long ago given up on trying to understand the inner workings of Pansy Parkinson's mind.

Tracey and I watched as Pansy reached Draco's side and started complaining about something (probably entitled third years). Blaise and Nott seemed relieved at the reprieve.

"We're going to end up eating ice cream, using boxes of tissues, and bad-mouthing Draco Malfoy until three o'clock in the morning again, aren't we?" asked Tracey as Pansy hooked her arm around Draco's and gave him a flirtatious smile.

I grinned. "What's Hogwarts without some Draco drama?"

"Peaceful."

I opened my mouth to respond when I heard a crisp, female voice call out, "First years, line up over here, please! All first years to me!" I turned and saw that instead the hulking half-giant who usually led the new students across the lake, the severe-faced Professor Grubbly-Plank held the lantern and called for the first years to gather in front of her.

Tracey had noticed the switch in professors as well. "Did they finally give Hagrid the sack?"

"I doubt it," I said. "Potter's good friends with Hagrid, so firing him would upset Potter."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" asked Tracey.

"I spent all summer reading about Potter in the_ Daily Prophet_. Then, when I come back to school, what's the first thing I hear on Platform 9¾?"

"Let me guess… 'Harry Potter'?"

"Bloody annoying."

Blaise and Nott had finally managed to escape Draco and were now making their way towards Tracey and me. The platform had cleared over the last few minutes as the students headed down to the horseless carriages.

I took one look at the cage containing Blaise's black cat before I rolled my eyes and said, "You still haven't seen sense and gotten yourself an owl?"

"Leave Pierre alone," said Blaise as he led the way down the platform.

"I just don't get why you'd want a cat or a toad as a pet. I mean, owls deliver your mail. They're useful. What do cats do?"

"They're good for cuddling," said Tracey.

"So buy a throw rug."

Tracey decided it was better to ignore me at this point, so she turned to Nott and asked, "What did Draco want?"

Nott snorted. "To ask about our summers. To know how my dad is doing. To know if we'd stopped hanging out with you yet."

"Stupid blond ferret," I muttered.

"He's sensitive about the whole ferret thing," said Tracey, mimicking Pansy's slightly nasal voice.

"I miss Mad-Eye Moody," I said. "He was a great Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and all—but mainly I love him 'cause he turned Draco into a ferret."

"Didn't he turn out to be a Death Eater in disguise?" asked Tracey.

"Well, yeah," I said, "but we're Slytherins, so he was never any threat to us."

"You bank too much on our Slytherin reputation," muttered Blaise.

We found an empty carriage and put our trunks and animal cages on the floor before settling in the seats. The horseless carriages always freaked me out a little because I knew they weren't actually horseless. At the beginning of second year, Nott, mumbling and shuffling his feet, had informed us that there were these almost reptilian, horse-like beasts standing between the carriage shafts. None of had believed him at first, even when he described the animals in detail, saying that they had black coats that clung to their skeletons and leathery wings tucked up at their sides. After some research, which involved me dragging my friends to the library, we learned that the animals were thestrals and that only people who had witnessed death could see them. Nott had watched his mum die when he was five-years-old, which was why, out of all of us, he could see them.

"So, Nott," said Tracey, leaning back in her carriage seat, "You never answered our question about you-know-who."

"The Dark Lord," I corrected automatically.

Nott sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Is he back?" asked Tracey.

"Yes."

"Then the story about the Triwizard Cup being a portkey and Cedric Diggory dying in the graveyard are all true?"

"I guess so," said Nott. "My dad only tells me bits and pieces, and a lot of it I overhear."

"So the Dark Lord is lying low at the moment." Blaise was stroking the head of his cat through the bars of the carrier. "And his contacts in the ministry are spreading rumors about Potter and Dumbledore."

"Actually," said Nott, "I think the rumors are all Fudge's doing."

"Fudge?" Tracey's eyes widened. "Why would the Minister of Magic help the Dark Lord hide his return?"

"Because Fudge is probably in denial," I said. "The idiot. This is why you don't elect a man named after a type of chocolate to run your government."

Blaise hid a smile, and I grinned across the carriage at him.

"Well," said Tracey, "I'd be pissed if I were Potter."

I groaned. "See, it all comes back to Harry freaking Potter."

Tracey opened her mouth to respond, but then she actually thought about it. "You know, for someone I've never spoken to before, Potter does come up in my conversations a lot."

"Don't give her anything to go on," said Blaise, but it was too late.

"You see!" I cried. "I'm sick of it. I don't know Harry Potter. I've never spoken to Harry Potter. The only time I've interacted with him was when he accidentally bumped into me in the hallway outside Potions class. I have no reason to talk about Harry freaking Potter, but he always manages to sneak into my conversations. Well, I've had it. I'm not Random Side Character #214, I'm Daphne Greengrass, and from this moment on, I will never mention him again."

Nott snorted. "Give her two minutes, and she'll be back to ranting about Potter and Gryffindor privilege."

"I won't," I said through gritted teeth.

"You will," said Blaise matter-of-factly. "The moment someone brings up Potter in conversation, you're done for. You're incapable of not giving your opinion."

I scowled at my supposed best friend and folded my arms over my chest. "I can do this, and I will. Look, every time one of you catches me mentioning his name, I'll pay you a sickle."

"Really?" A mischievous glint appeared in Tracey's eyes.

"Don't take her up on that, Tracey," said Blaise. "She'll be bankrupt before Christmas."

"I can do it," I cried. "I can go a whole year without mentioning him."

"I'm willing to take that bet," said Tracey.

"Me too." Nott leaned back in his seat. "You can pay for your own Christmas present this year, Daph."

I glanced at Blaise. I could see the debate running through his mind. He didn't want to go along with yet another one of my convoluted plans, but he did like making money without much effort. Not that I intended to make this easy for them.

He sighed. "Why is this such a big deal now? Talking about Potter has never bothered you before."

I folded my arms over my chest and said stubbornly, "I'm not a side character."

Blaise's eyebrows shot up, and I knew he was reading more into that comment than there really was.

"All right," said Blaise. "I'll call you out on it whenever you mention Potter."

I grinned at him. "Great. Then the Daphne Greengrass Shall Not Talk About Harry Potter Bet begins…now."

"So," said Tracey, leaning forward in her seat, "did you lot hear about Potter's trial for the use of underage magic? A load of dragon dung on the ministry's part. If Potter was going to lie about it, he'd come up with something more believable than dementors."

"I heard a group of fourth year Hufflepuffs talking about how they can't believe they attend school under a nutjob like Dumnbledore," said Nott. "Believe it or not, people are buying the_ Daily Prophet_'s headlines."

Blaise smirked at me. "What do you think, Daph?"

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Of course," said Tracey, beaming at me, "I'm a little low on cash at the moment."


	2. I Am Not Allowed Near Pointy Objects

**Chapter Two: I Am Not Allowed Near Pointy Objects**

The carriages moved in a line up the dirt path towards the castle. I watched as we passed under the pillars topped with huge, winged boars, which marked the entrance to the school grounds. The carriage rattled slightly as one of the wheels ran over a loose stone, but I had no fear of the carriage upturning or the wheel breaking—one of the perks of magic. Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt outside the front steps of Hogwarts castle.

I glanced ahead and saw that Harry Potter was getting out of his carriage, followed by Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Two other girls got out of the carriage with Potter and his friends. One I recognized as another Weasley (in Draco's words, they all had red hair and hand-me-down robes) and the other was wearing Ravenclaw colors. I watched the scrawny, black-haired boy interact with his friends. I'd never understood what all the fuss was about when it came to Potter. He was shorter than most boys in our year. He wasn't good-looking like Draco or entertaining like Seamus Finnigan, and he wasn't intelligent like Terry Boot or Anthony Goldstein. From what I could figure, Harry Potter was just a regular bloke who got lucky when he was a baby.

"What're you staring at, Daph?" asked Blaise.

I blinked. Hippogriff shite. After my big declaration of never talking about Harry Potter, Blaise had just caught me staring at him and his sidekicks.

Tearing my eyes away from the Boy Who Lived, I turned to smile innocently at my best friend. "I'm ready for some treacle tart."

We left our belongings in the carriages to be taken to the dormitories by house elves and headed into the Entrance Hall. The high, stone ceiling was illuminated by blazing torches, and the room was filled with the echoing sounds of footsteps as the student body shuffled into the Great Hall. The process was slow, but finally we stepped through the arching doorway into the hall. As always, a swarm of burning candles hovered above the four long, wooden tables and a starry night sky loomed overhead in place of a ceiling.

The table furthest from the doors contained Gryffindor house where Potter and his friends were already seated. Gryffindors were a loud, rambunctious group, making a point of living up to their title as the "brave and daring" house. I made a point of avoiding them in order to keep up my Slytherin reputation, but I'd always thought Dean Thomas was kind of cute.

Next to the Gryffindor table was the Hufflepuff one. I found my Charms partner, Hannah Abbott, sitting amongst her housemates. Our friendship was based on me interfering in her love life and her helping me pass Charms class. She caught sight of me and waved, a warm smile spreading across her face. I grinned and waved back. A few of her Hufflepuff friends frowned at me, but some of them smiled as well. Slytherins received mixed receptions with that house. I, thankfully, was considered one of the least offensive Slytherins and was usually just ignored.

The next table belonged to Ravenclaw House, which was usually more friendly with Slytherin compared to the other two. I recognized Cho Chang, the sixth-year Ravenclaw seeker, surrounded by her posy of girls. Pansy and I had always disliked Chang, though that had more to do with the fact that she had dated the extremely fit Cedric Diggory and less to do with the fact that we'd never spoken to her before in our lives. I tried to spot some of my Ravenclaw friends, but they were lost amongst the crowd of black-robed students.

The table closest the doors was ours. I led the way three-quarters down the table before finding one of my treacle tart spots and sitting down. Blaise sat next to me, Tracey across from me, and Nott next to her. It would have been a great evening full of mashed potatoes, haggis, and treacle tart if Pansy hadn't appeared at that moment, dragging Draco Malfoy behind her, and took the empty seat to my left.

I could see the irritation in Draco's jaw as he sat down next to Pansy with Crabbe and Goyle opposite them. Tracey looked as thrilled to be beside Crabbe as I was to be in the vicinity of Draco. Sure enough, the blond ferret shot me a glare over Pansy's head, which I returned.

"Try not to stab his eyes out with a fork," muttered Blaise.

I smiled, though it came out more of a grimace. "Why ever would I do that?"

"Who's that?" asked Tracey abruptly.

We followed her line of sight towards the professors' table at the front of the hall. Dumbledore sat at the center of the table in the extravagant clothing he usually wore for the opening feast; this time it was deep purple robes, scattered with silvery stars, and a matching hat. I scanned the professors and quickly saw who Tracey was talking about. It was hard to miss a toad dressed in pink. She wasn't actually a toad, but she certainly had the squat, squinty-eyed look of one. She had curly, mouse-brown hair that was topped with a pink headband that matched her equally atrocious pink cardigan.

All the pink was burning holes in my eye sockets and I had to turn away. "Please tell me she isn't our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two," said Nott. "My father mentioned her, but I didn't realize she would be so…" He trailed off, looking for the right word.

"Pink?" I suggested.

"Yeah."

"You didn't know?" Draco's snide voice interrupted our conversation. "She works with Cornelius Fudge. Finally, the Ministry is taking action and purifying Hogwarts of all of Dumbledore's mudblood-loving rules."

I knew I'd promised Blaise that I wouldn't stab Draco, but damn, that fork was starting to look attractive.

"As long as she actually teaches us Defense Against the Dark Arts, I don't care who hired her," said Blaise as he subtly slid the fork out of my reach.

"I doubt that'll happen," said Tracey. "The only good Defense Against the Dark Arts professors we've ever had were a werewolf and a prison escapee drugged up on Polyjuice Potion."

Our conversation came to an end when Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared, leading a line of scrawny-looking first years. I smirked at the sight of them, remembering the day, five years ago, when I had shuffled into the Great Hall for the first time. I'd sat with Stephen Cornfoot and Sue Li (who both became Ravenclaws) on the train, and we'd all been jittery with nerves as we lined up between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

I surveyed the first years who were now standing in the center of the Great Hall, their faces a strange shade of pale orange under the light of the floating candles. Some of them were staring in awe up at the vast, starry sky overhead. That was the usual reaction to the Great Hall. Some people even said that there was no ceiling, only a passage to the heavens. I call hippogriff shite on all those people though; we live in the wizarding world—things like this were possible.

Professor McGonagall had risen from her seat at the teacher's table and had placed a dingy hat on a stool at the front of the hall. All eyes were fixated on the Sorting Hat as we waited for it to burst into song.

Ah, the Sorting Hat's song. One of the highlights (or lowlights, if you're me and can't stand that the Hat sings off-key) of the arrival feast. I placed my hands over my ears and scowled at the Hat until it was done. I wasn't the only one who did this. Some of the choir people did as well, trying to smile and act as though their ears weren't bleeding.

"So," I said, removing my hands when the song was over, "same old rubbish? Ravenclaws are smart, Gryffindors are brave, Slytherins are evil, and Hufflepuffs are whatever?"

"Actually," said Nott, "the Hat's decided to sing a different tune."

"It got vocal lessons?" I asked eagerly.

"No. Still as painful to listen to as ever," said Blaise. "The hat's going for school unity this year."

"It sang about school unity?" I asked. "The Hat—which divides us into four separate houses that we live with, eat with, have classes with—wants us to have school unity?"

"It did mention something about regret," said Tracey thoughtfully.

"So why does it want us to unite?" I asked.

"Against 'external, deadly foes'." Blaise gave me a meaningful look, leaving me to interpret what sort of foes the hat might be referring to.

From what I'd heard, the Hat spent its time when it wasn't sorting students in Dumbledore's office, so it probably heard a lot of confidential information. That's probably where the Hat came up with the lyrics to its songs. Actually, when I thought about it, the Sorting Hat probably had a very sad and boring existence, sitting on a shelf and coming up with lyrics, waiting until the one night a year when it was needed to sort the first-year students… Eavesdropping on the conversations in Dumbledore's office was probably one of the few highlights of the Hat's existence. I suddenly felt a bit guilty about covering up my ears and refusing to listen to the Hat's song.

"You'd think they'd get rid of that ratty old thing eventually," sneered Draco as Euan Abercrombie was sorted into Gryffindor.

"I know," cried Pansy, who could never bring herself to disagree with Draco. "I was disgusted when I had to put it on. What if it had lice?"

Blaise's mouth twitched into a smile. "I'm sure there are spells on the Hat that prevent it from getting lice."

"That's actually a good thought though," I said. "I mean, Godric Gryffindor wasn't known for his intelligence. He might not have thought about lice when he decided to use it for the sorting."

"I've never heard of anyone getting lice from the hat," said Blaise, "so I reckon we're safe."

"Maybe we just haven't had anyone with lice get sorted yet," said Tracey.

Draco scowled. "Imagine some grubby mudblood spreading lice among the first years."

I glowered at Draco and wished that Blaise hadn't confiscated my fork. Ah, well, there was always the butter knife.

Blaise slowly pulled the knife out of my reach. Damn him for knowing me so well.

Once all the first years had taken their seats at their respective tables and McGonagall had taken away the Sorting Hat for another year, Dumbledore rose from his chair and said, "To our newcomers, welcome! To our old hands, welcome back! There is time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

On cue, food began to materialize on the tables. Turkey, pork, haggis, potatoes, turnips, salads, roast vegetables—all manner of foods appeared in large, decorative portions. Blaise, Nott, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle piled their plates high, while Tracey, Pansy, and I were more selective. Over the summer, Pansy had realized that we'd reached the age where we started gaining weight. It had terrified her so much that she'd sent owls to Tracey and me, starting us on a new diet. Meaning that if I wanted treacle tart, I had to eat salad and roasted vegetables for dinner.

I looked down at the miniscule portions of food on my plate and then over at the much larger portions on Blaise's plate. Sometimes life just wasn't fair.

I was about to take a bite of my mashed turnips when I realized I didn't have a fork to eat with. "Can I have my silverware back?"

"That depends. Are you going to behave?"

"I never behave."

He couldn't argue with that, so he handed over the knife and fork, and I helped myself to the food on my plate.

I'd never been one to guilt trip over the fact that our meals were prepared by hundreds of house-elves. I'd grown up being waited on by my mum's house-elf, Hoben, and during the divorce, he had been given a choice, which was more than Astoria and I had been given. Much to Mum's horror, Hoben had preferred Dad. So now, Hoben managed Dad's house in Liverpool while Dad was away working in foreign countries, and Mum refused to buy another house elf, calling them traitors and all sorts of things that I'd rather not repeat when she was on the piss.

After we'd cleared our plates of dinner, the dishes vanished and were replaced by trays of desserts, and that glorious, glorious treacle tart appeared before me. Goyle reached for the serving spoon first, and I'd hissed at him, causing him to drop the spoon in surprise.

"You don't mess with Daphne's treacle tart," said Tracey. "We learned that the hard way."

"I still have the puncture wounds from the fork to prove it." Pansy waved her right hand about to show Draco the non-existent scars.

"Treacle tart's all right," said Draco, "but I prefer the strawberry shortcake."

This was why Draco Malfoy and I could never get along.

"Our house elf, Dobby, used to make it all the time," continued Draco, not noticing my glare. "But then he got ahold of a sock somehow, and we haven't gotten another one yet."

"I've always wanted a house elf," said Pansy. "Mum says we don't need one though. She's perfectly capable of using magic to clean the dishes."

Blaise took a sip of pumpkin juice. "Number Three had one. Mum didn't want to take the elf away from his home, so she left the elf remain in the mansion after Number Three passed on."

"How's Number Six?" I asked.

We never referred to Blaise's stepfathers by their names. Blaise claimed that it was easier to keep track if he just numbered them off, but I knew it was because it was easier on him to pretend they didn't have names and weren't real people.

"One of the better ones," said Blaise. "He's off on business trips most of the time, so I don't see him much."

I swallowed a bite of the heavenly treacle tart. Making sure that no one else was listening in on our conversation, I said, "My dad spent most of the summer in India, so Astoria and I stayed at our mum's place. Except she had her new boyfriend around, and honestly, he can't be much older than we are."

"The Welsh Chaser?" asked Blaise.

"The Welsh Chaser only lasted 'til March. Now she's moved on to a _Daily Prophet_ reporter."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blaise hesitate. Whenever Blaise hesitated, it meant that he was about to bring up a topic that neither one of us wanted to discuss. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for what was to come.

"This side character thing," said Blaise, keeping his voice low so that no one would hear us. "It wouldn't have anything to do with your parents, would it?"

I stabbed him with my fork.

It wasn't a hard stab, just enough to cause him to yelp in pain and pull away from me.

Draco, Pansy, Tracey, and Nott all turned to stare at us, but I just smiled at them and proceeded to stuff my face with treacle tart.

"What'd you do now, Blaise?" asked Tracey.

"Nothing." Blaise rubbed his forearm where I'd stabbed him and muttered under his breath, "I'll confiscate the silverware again."

"I'll eat treacle tart with or without silverware," I said. "Which would you rather see?"

Eventually, the desserts disappeared off the table, and the student body turned to face the teacher's table where Dumbledore had risen from his seat to give the post-feast announcements. His voice, magnified by magic, filled the hall. "Well, now that we're all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices. First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students. And a few of our older students ought to know by now, too."

Dumbledore smiled affectionately at the Gryffindor table, and I bit back a comment about how any other student besides Potter would've been punished for going into the Forbidden Forest so many times. Tracey shot me a knowing grin.

Apparently unaware of his blatant favoritism, Dumbledore continued talking. "Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year. We're very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons. We're also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Tryouts for house Quidditch teams will take place—"

Dumbledore broke off mid-sentence and turned to stare at the stout, pink woman who sat to his left. At first, no one could understand why Dumbledore had stopped speaking, but then Umbridge made a little clearing noise in her throat and got to her feet. A look of surprise flashed across Dumbledore's face, but he quickly recovered and sat back down in his chair. His blue eyes were fixed on Umbridge, as if she was the most fascinating thing in the Great Hall right then (and this was a Great Hall with floating candles and an enchanted ceiling).

My friends and I exchanged can-you-believe-this-is-happening glances before turning to stare at Umbridge. I don't think anyone has ever dared to interrupt Dumbledore's start-of-term announcements before, and my respect for the woman-toad went up a little. Now, she just had to be a competent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and I would have no problems with her. I wouldn't even mind that she wore so much pink.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome."

My liking for Umbridge decreased instantly. She had one of those voices that made her sound like she was trying too hard to be pleasant. I didn't have any problem with people faking niceness, but they needed to learn how to do so convincingly.

"Well, it's lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say," she continued. "And to see such happy little faces looking up at me."

I glanced around at my fellow Slytherins. Nott looked as though he might regurgitate his dessert, Tracey had scrunched up her nose in disgust, Pansy seemed to be restraining herself from throwing something, Draco looked momentarily stunned, and Blaise was trying not to laugh.

Leaning forward, Blaise muttered to me, "As long as she's good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, none of this matters."

"Please let her be competent," I said, hands clasped together beneath the table.

Umbridge had launched into a long speech about the Ministry's plans for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, using phrases such as "treasure trove of magical knowledge" and "without progress there will be stagnation and decay".

I'm going to be completely honest here and say that I'm terrible when it comes to lectures. I've been known to fall asleep in Transfigurations class (Blaise has to kick me under the desk so that McGonagall doesn't catch me napping) and I've never made it through Binns's class without doodling cartoons in the margins of my parchment notebook (I like to draw epic showdowns between Hinkypunks and Cornish pixies). That's not to say I'm a bad student. I actually have one of the highest grades in our History of Magic Class, but that's because, while I'm terrible at listening, I'm a great reader.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I zoned out within the first two minutes of Umbridge's speech. And I wasn't the only one. All around the hall, students started dozing off. About fifteen minutes into the speech, only a few people, besides the professors, remained attentive to Umbridge's words. One of those people was, of course, Hermione Granger, though, judging by the downward curl to her lips, she didn't like what Umbridge was saying at all. At the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan was staring at Umbridge, but his eyes were glazed over and I think he was only pretending paying attention to live up to prefect's badge on his chest. Even Draco Malfoy, who loved the Ministry interfering with Hogwarts, was now having a conversation with Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that both Nott and Blaise were still listening to Umbridge. The disgust on Nott's face had only gotten worse throughout the speech and Blaise no longer looked amused. I decided to wait until Umbridge had finished her speech before asking them for the abridged version.

"…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

When she finished speaking, Umbridge gave the Great Hall another simpering smile before taking her seat. Dumbledore clapped, and the rest of the staff followed his lead. The sound snapped the student body out of its slumber, and we applauded the most boring speech in the history of Hogwarts (and we have all taken Professor Binns's History of Magic class, so that's saying something).

As Dumbledore continued his announcements, I turned to Blaise and asked, "So, what was all that hippogriff shite about?"

"You need to pay attention," said Blaise.

"No one was paying attention," I muttered. "That woman could put the undead to sleep."

Nott ran his fingers through his messy, brown hair before saying, "Basically, the Ministry is trying to reduce Dumbledore's influence at Hogwarts. They've already placed Umbridge here as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but in her speech, she mentioned getting rid of professors and practices that the Ministry doesn't approve of."

"So maybe they have sacked Hagrid," said Tracey thoughtfully.

"Finally," said Draco, "what kind of nutter made that clumsy oaf a professor?" He glanced in the direction of Dumbledore. "Oh right."

I had never taken Care of Magical Creatures as a class—both Blaise and I had signed up for Arithmancy and the Study of Ancient Runes as our electives—but according to Tracey and Nott, Hagrid was an inconsistent teacher. So as much as I wanted to blame Draco for being a prat to Hagrid, he might be justified in his complaints about Dumbledore's choice in professor.

When the announcements had finished, it was time for us to head to our dormitories. Blaise got the password from Pansy, who was thrilled at the idea of being able to boss the first years around, and we headed down to the Slytherin common room which, in order to keep our reputation intact, was located in the dungeons.

When we reached the stone that marked the entrance to the common room, Blaise gave the password, "bitis atropis," and the wall moved back to permit us into the Slytherin Dungeon. We walked down the passage and stepped into the room of arching, black ceilings, stone floors, gray rugs, emerald lamps, black sofas, and several fireplaces that were currently unlit. Tapestries of famous medieval Slytherins hung from the walls and black skulls had been carved into the tops of pillars. At the back of the common room were two doors, one leading to the girls' dorms and one leading to the boys'.

A wide grin slipped onto my face as I sat down in one the black armchairs. I faced my friends and said, in my best croaky voice, "Welcome back to our evil lair. Here we shall do our plotting and begin our training to join the forces of the Dark Lord."

Tracey sighed. "People like you are the reason we have a bad reputation."

"The reputation was bad before I got here. If you want to blame someone, blame Pansy and Draco."

Tracey frowned. "What does Draco do?"

"You know."

She stared at me, lips pursed in confusion.

"You know…he goes around calling people mudbloods and antagonizes Potter and stuff."

A wide, triumphant grin appeared on Tracey's face. "You owe me a sickle."

I paused, and then it hit me. "Aw, pixie shite."

"You walked right in to that one," said Blaise.

"Come on," I wailed. "It doesn't count if you fool me into it."

"Not my fault you're so gullible," said Tracey. Blaise nodded in agreement.

I glanced at Nott, hoping he'd support me on this one (he was usually the trustworthy friend), but Nott just said, "You should've established the rules before you made the bet."

"Bloody hell!" I cried. "My friends are all evil."

A wicked grin spread across Blaise's face. "But, Daph, we're just keeping up our Slytherin reputations."


	3. Even Our Classes Are All About Potter

**Chapter Three: Even Our Classes Are All About Potter**

Fighting back a sigh, I examined the red marks on my arm where the self-fertilizing shrub had bitten me. "I swear, Herbology tries to kill me every year."

"Plants and you do not get along," said Pansy cheerfully.

"It could've been worse," said Tracey. "The shrub could've gotten the whole arm."

Tracey and Pansy were both in good moods—partly because they hadn't had a self-fertilizing shrub try to devour their arms and partly because we were currently on our way to Potions class. Of course, they were excited for Potions for two very different reasons. Tracey was actually very good at Potions; she liked mixing all the ingredients together and making something new. Pansy, on the other hand, liked Potions because it meant that she could stare dreamily at Draco Malfoy while Nott brewed the potion for her.

Originally, Tracey and Nott had been partners who aced the class with ease, while Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode had struggled to brew even a passable potion. Then, because Pansy couldn't fail the class, she'd begged Tracey to switch with her. Neither Tracey nor Nott had been happy with the change, since Millicent referred to Tracey as an "almost muggle" and Nott hated hearing about how "dreamy" Draco looked.

"There you are," said Tracey, catching sight of Nott and Blaise standing together further down the crowded corridor.

"Where'd you lot get off to?" asked Nott. "You were right behind us when we were coming back from the greenhouses."

"Pansy caught sight of Draco and we had to stop and admire the scenery." I rubbed my aching arm. Professor Sprout had stopped the bleeding and reformed the skin, but three red welts remained.

"That shrub got you good," said Nott, examining my arm with faint amusement.

"Why'd it bite you?" asked Pansy. "I didn't have any trouble with my shrub."

Blaise scoffed. "She started ranting about the dangers of the moving staircases, and the shrub decided it didn't want to listen to her voice anymore."

"It's your fault!" I whacked him on the shoulder. "You made a joke about staircase casualties."

"I made the joke, but you decided to read too far into it and question why no one's died on the moving staircases yet."

"Someone must've fallen off them at some point," I cried. "It's a dozen floor drop. Someone should have at least ended up in the Hospital Wing."

A skinny third year pushed past me, and I stumbled backwards into Nott. He caught my arm and righted me easily. Meanwhile, Pansy turned around to screech at the kid. "Watch where you're going, pig-head! There's a prefect walking here!"

"Ah, yes," said Nott, massaging his forehead. "It wouldn't be Hogwarts without Pansy's shrill voice in the mornings."

"I heard that, you beanstalk," snapped Pansy. "Just because you lot are my friends doesn't meant I won't give you detentions." She paused, her gaze fixing on someone through the crowd. I didn't have to look to know who it was. Sure enough, Pansy hurried off, crying, "Oh, Draco! Do you have a Potions partner for this year?"

We watched her bound after the blond ferret before shaking our heads at one another.

"She does know tailing after him like that is not doing her any favors, right?" asked Blaise.

Nott was still staring after Pansy, a hopeful look in his eyes. "Do you think Draco will want to switch partners?"

"You want to be paired up with Crabbe?" I asked.

Nott sighed. "At least Crabbe won't ask me if I prefer Draco's hair parted to the left or the right."

We reached the dungeons about the same time as Potter and his friends. Weasley and Granger were arguing about when was a suitable time to ask Cho Chang about Quidditch teams as they entered the Potions classroom. I was about to make some scathing comment about when would it ever be suitable for Ron Weasley to ask popular, pretty Cho Chang about Quidditch, but then I remembered that Harry Potter and his friends were not a part of my life and talking about them would lose me a precious sickle. I tried to copy Blaise's I-am-above-you expression as I strode past the Gryffindors to my seat.

Blaise settled on the other side of the desk, smirking at me. "What were you going to say?"

"What?" I pulled my textbook out of my bag and placed it on the desk next to my pewter cauldron.

"About Weasley," said Blaise. "The bet only concerns mentioning and referring to Potter. Weasley is fair game."

"I'm not falling for that again."

"I'm not trying to pinch money off you. I'm the one who was against this stupid bet in the first place."

My eyes narrowed, and I surveyed Blaise suspiciously. Let me go on record saying this: Blaise Zabini is attractive. With sharp cheekbones and large eyes, he was a nine-out-of-ten. Maybe even a nine-point-five. In fact, in third year, when Pansy and I made a list of the Top Ten Fittest at Hogwarts, Blaise ended up Number Eight. Cedric Diggory had been ranked first, but, er, the spot was up for grabs now…

I opened my mouth to tell Blaise what I'd been thinking about Weasley and Chang when the door to the dungeon opened, and Professor Severus Snape, dressed in long, black robes, swept into the room.

"Settle down," said Snape in his usual cold tones. "Before we begin today's lesson, I think it is appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 'Acceptable' in your OWL, or suffer my…displeasure."

Sometimes, I think Snape has a really sadistic sense of humor. He must have watched our reactions to his final statement and found it absolutely hilarious—not that he showed any outward signs of humor. Neville Longbottom had turned as white as a sheet, Pansy looked like she was about to fall of her stool, and Lavender Brown visibly gulped.

"After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me." Snape looked pleased with this prospect. "I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye. But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell."

I tried to hold back my laugh, but it came out more of a soft snort. Blaise glanced over at me, eyebrows raised.

"So," continued Snape, thankfully not hearing me, "whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students. Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level—the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned, if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients, you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing. The ingredients and method are on the blackboard. You will find everything you need in the store cupboard. You have an hour and a half…start."

Blaise had found the correct page of the textbook before Snape had even told us to begin and was now reading off the list of ingredients for me.

Blaise and I had a system. We'd been partners since first year, and we'd long ago established that I had zero talent in brewing potions. So I did most of the grunt work, such as getting both our ingredients from the cupboard and cutting them, while Blaise did the most of the work for both cauldrons, such as adding the ingredients, managing the temperature, and stirring the brew. As long as it looked like we were both working hard, Snape never said a word.

"You know," I said in a low voice as I crushed the moonstone, "we'd never get away with splitting up the work like this if we were in another house. If we'd were Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs or—Merlin forbid—Gryffindors, Snape would give a week's worth of detention and throw us out of class."

Ignoring me, Blaise stirred his potion clockwise. I mimicked him, watching his movements carefully so I didn't screw up. Next, he added the powdered moonstone and, while I was dealing with next ingredient, he stirred both our potions three times counterclockwise.

"Personally," I said. "I like Snape 'cause he favors Slytherins. But objectively, I don't think he's a very good professor."

"Daph." Blaise nodded in Snape's direction. I didn't see what all the fuss was since Snape was on the other side of the room out of earshot, but then Blaise said, "There is such a thing as a listening spell."

I gulped as I imagined Snape overhearing what I'd just said about him; my Slytherin privilege would disappear, and I'd fail Potions just like Neville Longbottom.

Nervously, I kept my head down and worked on my potion for the rest of class—or, at least, I tried. Blaise did most of the work for me, and what he didn't do, I did under his supervision.

At one point, I could hear Millicent one desk over saying something about how Tracey was good at Potions for the daughter of a muggle. Nott chose that moment to get some additional ingredients from the cupboard, and while walking past Millicent, he "accidentally" knocked the sloth brain off the desk and into her lap. Millicent shrieked and forgot whatever she'd been saying to Tracey. I grinned at Nott as he walked back to his seat.

When there were ten minutes left in class, Snape called out, "A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion."

I examined Blaise's and my cauldrons: his was emitting dark silver steam while mine was letting off puffs of gray smoke. Mine wasn't perfect, but it was definitely "Acceptable" level. The system had worked again.

I glanced around the classroom and saw that only a few other students were having success. Draco, Nott, and Tracey's potions were also releasing gray vapors, while Potter and Pansy's potions had dark gray clouds. Poor Weasley's potion was actually letting off green sparks and clumsy Neville Longbottom had somehow managed to set the surface of his potion on fire. Only Granger had successfully created a light, silver vapor. Not that Snape noticed.

Snape passed by all the disaster potions without comment and chose to focus on Potter's dark gray clouds. With a sneer, Snape asked, "Potter, what is this supposed to be?"

Draco and Pansy snickered.

"The Draught of Peace." Potter's voice was flat, and he refused to look at Snape.

"Tell me, Potter," said Snape, "can you read?"

Draco actually laughed aloud.

"Yes, I can," said Potter stiffly.

Snape showed no reaction but only said, "Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter."

Squinting at the blackboard, Potter read aloud, "'Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.'" The color drained from Potter's face as he realized what he had done wrong.

"Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?" asked Snape.

Potter's answer was inaudible.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

Potter took a deep breath and said a little more loudly, "No. I forgot to add the hellebore."

"I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. _Evanesco_." With a wave of his wand, Snape made the contents of Potter's cauldron vanish. Snape ignored the stunned, frustrated expression on Potter's face and turned to the rest of the class, saying, "Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing. Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday."

As I moved to bottle up my potion, I felt a wave of hot indignation on behalf of Potter. His potion was far better than Weasley's and Longbottom's, yet it was Potter who would receive a zero for the day. I may not particularly like Potter, but even I could acknowledge that Snape was being brutally unfair.

I started to tell Blaise this when I remembered the bet. In silence, I placed my flagon on Snape's desk and moved back to my station to clean up my cauldron and knives.

* * *

There was risotto for lunch. I spooned the rice onto my plate, while Blaise looked on with disgust. He loathed the dish for some reason, so of course I always made a show of eating it in front of him.

"Daphne!" cried Pansy as I ate a bite of risotto with more enjoyment than necessary. "No carbs at lunch! Don't you remember the diet rules? No wonder you've been looking fatter around the middle."

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth and stared at Pansy.

"She doesn't look any different," said Nott quickly.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to call your friends fat," added Tracey, who had a nice, healthy salad on her plate.

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't tell Daphne when she was gaining weight?" asked Pansy. "I'm just looking out for her."

I sat in mortification as my so-called friends discussed whether or not I had gotten fatter. Blaise was half-hidden behind his hands as he shook with silent laughter. I debated force-feeding him risotto as revenge.

And then, to make matters worse, a snide voice from behind me asked, "Who's gained weight?"

I twisted around to see Draco standing over me, wearing his usual stupid, smug grin. Crabbe and Goyle stood on either side of him, huge and menacing. Though, honestly, if we were going to talk about weight gain, we should be talking about Crabbe who had gotten even bigger over the summer, if that was possible.

"Daphne," said Pansy.

"You've gained weight?" asked Draco.

"She's been ignoring the rules of our diet," explained Pansy as she shook her head. "Having carbs for lunch is a big no-no."

"She looks fine to me," said Nott.

"Thank you, Nott," I said with a venomous glare in Pansy's direction. "You're my only true friend."

Blaise snickered and then said, loudly, "So what did you lot think of Snape's attitude towards Potter in Potions class?"

I glared at Blaise for bring up Potter, but then I realized that he was changing the topic to save me from further embarrassment. If only he'd picked something besides Potter to talk about…

"Potter can't even make a passable Draught of Living Death," said Draco with a laugh.

"His potion wasn't a disaster though," said Tracey. "It was better than Longbottom's, but you didn't see Longbottom getting a zero for the day."

"Snape has a special hatred for Potter," said Blaise. He glanced at me, daring me to say something about the Pottercentricity of the school, but I kept my mouth shut and my sickles in my wallet.

"It's nice to see someone who doesn't treat Potter like a saint though," said Pansy.

I shifted in my seat, biting back a comment about how Snape's treatment of Potter was still Pottercentric.

Blaise glanced at me and said, "But hating Potter more than the rest of the students still singles Potter out as special."

I almost hugged Blaise right then. He understood me so well.

"Potter's nothing special," scoffed Draco.

"But the whole school treats him that way," said Tracey.

"Even you give him special attention, Draco," said Nott. I silently applauded him. "Didn't you introduce yourself to him first year because he was Harry Potter." Nott paused and added, "And didn't he reject your handshake?"

Draco turned red about the ears. "Potter's an idiot."

Personally, I thought Potter knew what he was doing when he refused a friendship with Draco, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Daphne's turning purple," said Tracey with amusement.

Draco gave me a scornful look and said, "You do know how to breathe, don't you?"

I glared at him and Blaise said, in a flat, bored tone, "She's trying to ignore Potter's existence for the rest of the year. If she mentions him to us, then she owes whoever calls her out on it a sickle."

Draco grinned at me. "Am I allowed in on this bet?"

My eyes narrowed and then I looked over at Blaise, expecting him to translate. Blaise rolled his eyes. There was no way he was going to tell Draco that I'd rather have my own wand shoved down my throat than give Draco even a knut of my money.

"Sure," said Pansy cheerfully. "If you're even short on money, just ask Daphne what she thinks of Potter competing in the Triwizard Tournament."

"It's a _tri_wizard tournament!" I cried. "Tri means three. _Three_. But Harry freaking Potter gets to compete even though he's underage and the fourth wizard. Why?"

"Because the Goblet of Fire is a magically enchanted binding contact," said Blaise.

"Because he's Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived," I said, ignoring Blaise's comment. "If it had been Nott or Tracey or me who had been chosen for the Triwizard Tournament like that, Dumbledore would have found a way so that we didn't compete, but because it was Potter, Dumbledore let him break all the rules and participate."

"Potter gets away with so much in this school," said Draco, nodding.

"Exactly!" I cried, completely forgetting about the bet and the fact that I hated Draco. I was just happy to have someone who understood how Pottercentric this school is. "If Gryffindor wins the House Cup one more time because of last-minute points, I swear, I will throw my wand at Dumbledore and storm out of the castle."

"I know what you mean," said Draco. "First year here was cruel. We worked hard to earn those h ouse points, answering questions in class, doing well on homework assignments, and helping teachers out where we could—and then all those house points were meaningless because Potter—Saint Potter—broke a million school rules."

"Well," said Tracey, "he did stop You-Know-Who from getting the Philosopher's Stone."

"He could have talked to a teacher," I said, "like any normal eleven-year-old would."

"But no," sneered Draco, "Potter had to be a hero and save the school all by himself."

"He could have gotten himself and his friends killed," I added. "He survived on dumb luck."

"And instead he gets rewarded for his stupidity," said Draco.

I nodded. "I don't care how perfect and heroic Potter is—I expect equal treatment! Breaking rules means detention. End of story."

Draco was nodding enthusiastically while Crabbe and Goyle followed suit. Tracey and Nott looked faintly amused by my rant, while Blaise was wearing his usual I'm-so-above-this expression.

Pansy gave a little cough and held out her hand to me.

I stared at her pale palm for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, with a sigh, I reached into the pocket of my shoulder bag and found a sickle.

* * *

After lunch, we parted was, and I headed to the Ancient Runes classroom with Blaise and Nott. Pansy and Tracey had both elected to take Divination for some reason. According to them, the class was fun because they could invent horrible predictions for the future and Trelawney would praise them for their genius. I didn't understand why anyone would want to take a class like that, but their loss, not mine.

The Study of Ancient Runes with Professor Bathsheda Babbling was one of my favorite classes and one of the two subjects in which I could sometimes beat Hermione Granger (the other being Arithmancy). After we had settled in our seats, Babbling gave us yet another speech about the importance of our OWLs (though she was much nicer about it than Snape), and then, we spent the rest of the class translating ancient runic texts. I finished long before Blaise and Nott and then passed the time bragging about my superior language skills until Nott threatened to curse me.

After Ancient Runes was double period Defense Against the Dark Arts with, unfortunately, the Gryffindors. Classes were the Gryffindors were always a pain. Mainly because the Slytherin students would make snide comments about the Gryffindor students and the Gryffindor students would make snide comments about the Slytherin students and no one would get any work done. It was not an environment conducive to learning.

To make matters worse, Blaise and Nott had taken too long to pack up their things after Ancient Runes, and we'd barely made it to Defense Against the Darts Arts classroom on time. Blaise and Nott had darted to grab the only empty desk, which forced me to choose between the two available seats in the room—the one next to Millicent Bulstrode (who smelled faintly of rotten eggs) or the one next to Neville Longbottom (who was dangerously clumsy). As much as I loathed Millicent, who had once called me "a nosy bitch" and was mean to Tracey on a regular basis, my Slytherin pride refused to let me sit by a Gryffindor. Sending a venomous glare in the direction of Blaise and Nott and ignoring the pitying smiles from Pansy and Tracey, I settled in the empty chair at the desk I now shared with Millicent.

I faced the front of the classroom where Professor Dolores Umbridge, wearing her fluffy, pink cardigan and a black velvet bow, sat behind the teacher's desk. She beamed at the class and said, in her sickly sweet voice, "Well, good afternoon!"

A couple people—mainly Gryffindors—muttered "good afternoon" halfheartedly in reply.

Under the desk, I clasped my hands together in some sort of silent prayer. _Please let Umbridge be a good teacher. Please let Umbridge be a good teacher. Please let Umbridge be a good teacher. It's OWL year and I really need to pass my Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Please let Umbridge be a good teacher. _I could put up with her voice and her outfits and her personality as long as she knew how to teach.

Umbridge shook her head. "Tut, tut. That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

I hated myself even as I said, in time with the rest of the class, "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge."

"There, now," said Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

My stomach sank as I put my cedar and unicorn hair wand away in my shoulder bag. I had a bad feeling about this. I glanced over my shoulder at Blaise and saw that his face showed the same bitterness as I felt. It looked like we were in for another year of uneducational and dull Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.

"Well now," said Umbridge, rising from her seat. "Your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it? The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year. You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please."

She tapped the blackboard with her wand and the list of course aims appeared in curling, white writing.

I picked up my quill, but rather than write down the boring course aims ("understanding the principles underlying defensive magic", "learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used", and "placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use") I doodled in the margin of my parchment notebook.

Millicent saw my drawing of Giant Squid and made a noise of disgust in the back of her throat. I drew a stick figure of Millicent about to be eaten by the Giant Squid. Completely forgetting about the course aims, Millicent sketched a picture of me about to be eaten by a giant toad (her art was much better than mine). I glanced up at Umbridge and was impressed by the likeness to Millicent's drawing.

When everyone else had finished writing down the course aims, Umbridge asked, "Has everybody got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

There was a murmur throughout the class. A couple people agreed. Crabbe grunted. I think Nott swore under his breath.

"I think we'll try that again," said Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So, has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge."

I moved my mouth to the words along with the rest of the class, but I let no sound come out.

"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners'. There will be no need to talk."

As I opened the book to chapter one, I found myself actually missing Gilderoy Lockhart and the Cornish pixies he'd set loose on the students. At least that had been entertaining.

I skimmed over the first page of the chapter. Reading and understanding textbooks had never been difficult for me, and I could get high marks on any written exam. It was the wandwork of the Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes that had always mystified me. I was renown among the Slytherin students for, in third year, setting the common room on fire while trying to transform a rock into a matchbox. If Umbridge wasn't going to teach me wandwork, then I would have to find some other way of learning the material for the OWL (and by "other way of learning", I meant forcing Nott to teach me).

When I was about halfway through the chapter, I looked up and saw that Hermione Granger had her book closed on her desk and her hand thrust in the air. Her gaze was fixed on Umbridge, who in turn, was determinedly ignoring Granger.

As part of my bet, I was going to pretend that Potter's two best friends didn't exist as well. However, it was difficult to ignore Granger when two-thirds of the class were staring at her instead of reading their textbooks.

Umbridge soon realized that as long as Granger's hand was in the air, the class wasn't going to get any work done. With a small tut-tut to clear her throat, Umbridge asked, "Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?"

"Not about the chapter, no," said Granger.

"Well, we're reading just now." Umbridge's voice poured over the room like honey. "If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," said Granger.

As much as Granger's overachieving goody-two-shoes attitude annoyed me sometimes, I had to admit the girl was pretty ballsy (well, she was in Gryffindor for a reason).

"And your name is…" said Umbridge slowly.

"Hermione Granger."

"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully." Umbridge smiled, showing all her teeth.

"Well, I don't," said Granger. "There's nothing written up there about _using_ defensive spells."

If I were in any other house but Slytherin, I would've applauded the girl. But I had a reputation to uphold, and everyone knew that Slytherins and Gryffindors hated each other on principal.

"Using defensive spells?" Umbridge let out a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

I wondered if stabbing Umbridge with my quill would make her rethink her teaching methods. After all, she would no longer be able to guarantee we wouldn't get attacked in class.

"We're not going to use magic?" asked Weasley loudly from his seat next to Potter.

Umbridge pursed her lips. "Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class,

"Mr.—?"

"Weasley."

Potter, Granger, and Weasley raised their hands in the air. Umbridge looked over all three of them, probably wondering if she could get away with ignoring the Golden Trio. However, since everyone in class was watching her curiously, she had little choice but address their questions one by one. She deliberately passed over Potter and said, "Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Granger. "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Umbridge.

"No, but—"

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is." Umbridge's voice was really grating on my nerves. "Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"

"What use is that?" Potter finally got tired to being ignored and spoke out of turn. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a—"

"Hand, Mr. Potter!" snapped Umbridge.

As Potter thrust his hand in the air, I couldn't help feeling a wave of irritation towards him. _Yes_, I thought at him, _even Saint Potter has the raise his hand like the rest of us common people._ I regretted my thoughts a moment later. I shouldn't take out my frustration on Potter; it wasn't his fault that Umbridge was a complete bitch. I was just annoyed because now even our rubbish Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson was going to be about Potter. Just wait and see, somehow this conversation about course aims was going to end with Potter versus Umbridge.

Umbridge had decided to ignore Granger, Weasley, and Potter. She instead turned to another Gryffindor asked, "And your name is?"

"Dean Thomas."

"Well, Mr. Thomas?" Umbridge's voice had lost its sweetness.

"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Thomas. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free—"

Umbridge's smile became frighteningly wide. "I repeat—do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

Thomas hesitated. "No, but—"

I was sorely tempted to attack one of my fellow classmates just so Umbridge could stop arguing that stupid point.

"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," she said. "But you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention, extremely dangerous half-breeds."

Well, I would never argue that Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't irresponsible, but at least we had learned the disarming spell from him—which was more than we would learn from Umbridge at this rate.

"If you mean Professor Lupin," said Thomas, determined to defend his favorite professor, "he was the best we ever —"

"Hand, Mr. Thomas!" snapped Umbridge. Her smile momentarily vanished, but it quickly returned with a vengeance. "As I was saying—you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—"

"No, we haven't," said Granger. "We just—"

"_Your hand is not up, Miss Granger_!"

Umbridge's shrill voice caused me to jump in my seat. I glanced over my shoulder to see how my fellow Slytherins were taking her words. Nott looked like he'd rather take his own eye out than be in this class any longer, Tracey and Pansy were exchanging frustrated glances, and Blaise was halfheartedly flipping through the pages of his textbook. Even Draco looked annoyed by Umbridge's refusal to teach us magic.

Not noticing, or perhaps ignoring, her class's irritation, Umbridge continued talking, "It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you—"

"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" said Thomas. "Mind you, we still learned loads—"

"Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!" Umbridge ignored him when he did raise his hand. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about."

Parvati Patil's hand shot up.

Umbridge offered her a toad-like smile and asked, "And your name is?"

"Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?"

I silently applauded Patil. It was nice to know that not all Gryffindors were stupid.

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," said Umbridge.

"Without ever practicing them before?" asked Patil incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?"

That was exactly what Umbridge was telling us, which meant Nott was going to stay up late on weekends teaching Blaise, Pansy, Tracey, and me everything he knew about counter-curses and the Dark Arts. That was how we'd all managed to pass this class for last four years.

"I repeat," said Umbridge, "as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—"

"And what good's theory going to be in the real world?" said Potter, hand high in the air.

"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," said Umbridge. Her voice frighteningly calm.

I gripped the edges of my desk and glared at the back of Potter's head. This conversation was about our education; it had nothing to do with his feud against the Ministry. But somehow, Potter was going to make it about him.

Potter's face was red with anger. "So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."

"Oh yeah?" Potter's shoulders were trembling with frustration.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" asked Umbridge sweetly.

"Hmm, let's think…" Sarcasm was dripping from Potter's words. "Maybe Lord Voldemort?"

Weasley gasped. Longbottom nearly fell off his stool. Lavender Brown actually screamed. Draco was smirking. Tracey looked at me and mouthed the words "Dark Lord". I snickered, and Millicent gave me a murderous glare. Blaise continued to look bored with the whole process, still half-heartedly flipping through the pages of his textbook.

Umbridge didn't even flinch at the name "Voldemort". A large, toothy smile spread across her face and she said, "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."

Well, as a Slytherin, I was glad Gryffindor lost points. However, it didn't mean much since Dumbledore always gave Potter and his friends enough points at the end of the year to win the House Cup anyways.

"Now," said Umbridge, addressing the whole class, "let me make a few things quite plain."

I blinked in surprise when her squinty eyes fell on me for a second. Then, her gaze moved on to Thomas and she said, "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"

"He wasn't dead," cried Potter, "but yeah, he's returned!"

"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself." Umbridge managed to say all that in one breath, which, I hated to admit it, was pretty impressive. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."

"It is _not_ a lie!" said Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"

"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Umbridge. A strange triumph glittered in her eyes. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners'."

Just as Umbridge sat down behind her desk again, Potter leapt to his feet.

"Harry, no!" cried Granger, tugging at the sleeve of his robe.

But her warning did no good. Voice trembling, Potter asked, "So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?"

Several of my classmates gasped. Potter had notably never talked about what happened to Cedric Diggory. Everything we'd heard about Diggory's death had come from Dumbledore, so there were several rumors floating around that there was some Potter-Dumbledore conspiracy surrounding Diggory's death. Even though I was a fan of conspiracy theories, I was an even bigger fan of Cedric Diggory (the boy had been good-looking, good natured, and an all-around good bloke), and I actually supported Potter's outburst against Umbridge. For once, I didn't care that this class had become about Potter's rebellion against the Ministry. Diggory deserved to be acknowledged as a victim of the Dark Lord, and this pink-clad bitch wasn't going to deny him that.

From her desk, Umbridge looked Potter over from head to toe and then said, "Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident."

"It was murder," said Potter. "Voldemort killed him, and you know it."

A hush had fallen over the classroom as every set of eyes looked from Potter to Umbridge and back to Potter. Umbridge's face was blank, emotionless. Right then, she looked like a complete nutter; she could've thrown a chair at Potter and I wouldn't have been surprised. Then, in her sweetest, sickliest voice, she said, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear."

If I were Potter, I would've run screaming in the opposite direction.

But, well, Potter wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. He got to his feet and slowly made his way past the rows of students to the teacher's desk. Umbridge pulled out a pink quill and a piece of parchment from her handbag and wrote something down. She then handed the parchment to Potter and said, "Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear."

Potter clenched the note in his right hand and, after grabbing his things from his desk, left the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Read chapter one, dears," said Umbridge.

I drew her tombstone in the margin of my textbook instead. It looked like we might just have the worst Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in the history of Hogwarts this year. Oh joy.


	4. Some Girls Go Quidditch Crazy

**Chapter Four: Some Girls Go Quidditch Crazy**

"According to the rumor mill, Potter got a week of detention with Umbridge for his tantrum in Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Tracey, lounging about in one of the common room armchairs.

It was the first Tuesday night of the school year, and as per usual, the five of us had claimed the back corner of the common room, by one of the fireplaces, as our area. Weeknights in the common room were almost always crowded, as students came here to do their homework together. The younger students were noticeably absent tonight, while fifth years and up were already pouring over their mountains of work.

Almost our entire year was in the common room, quills and parchment out. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting next to one of the fireplaces, watching as Draco read and underlined his Herbology textbook, and sitting with their sixth-year friends, Millicent and Georgina were working on the Transfiguration homework that was due first thing tomorrow morning.

In our corner, Blaise and Nott were sitting on the leather couch, trying to decipher their Ancient Runes homework. I had offered to help them, but they refused, saying they couldn't put up with my condescending attitude. So instead, Pansy, Tracey, and I sat in the armchairs around the unlit fireplace, doing our Transfiguration homework and talking loudly about the school gossip. Unfortunately, most of that gossip involved Potter, which meant I had to remain silent if I wanted to keep my money.

"What's an Umbridge detention like?" asked Pansy. "Is it as bad as a Snape detention?"

"I've heard all sorts of things," said Tracey. "Apparently, Ernie Macmillan's telling the Hufflepuffs that Potter's being forced to organize all her cat teacups, coding them by cat color and size."

"That's a load of piss," I muttered, unable to help myself.

"That counts as talking about Potter." Tracey held out a hand for her sickle.

Leaning back in my chair, I scowled at her and said, "I'll give it to you later."

"I'm already three sickles richer, thanks to you," said Tracey cheerfully. She turned to Pansy and continued, "But according to Jessica, who heard it from Padma Patil, who heard it from her sister, who saw it first hand, Potter's has the words 'I must not tell lies' etched into his arm. Jessica said she's heard of bewitched quills that do that sort of thing. Instead of writing with ink, the quill writes with your own blood."

"That's disgusting!" squealed Pansy.

Nott looked up from his homework. "I've heard of quills like that too. It's illegal to buy or sell them in Britain."

"Great," muttered Blaise, not looking up from the runic text in front of him, "so our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor owns and uses a Dark Arts quill to punish her students." He glanced over at me, as if expecting me to comment. But since we were still in Harry Potter territory, I kept my mouth shut.

"Draco told me where Hagrid is today in Care of Magical Creatures," said Pansy suddenly.

"Really?" I asked, excited for the topic change.

"Draco only brought the subject up because Potter was asking Grubbly-Plank how long she would be teaching for," said Nott. He cast a smug look in my direction, knowing he had just cut me out of the conversation again.

"Apparently, Hagrid's been talking to the giants," said Pansy. "Dumbledore wants some allies in the war against the Dark Lord, so he sent Hagrid and that half-giantess from Beauxbatons to Belarus to bargain with them."

"And how does Draco know all this?" asked Tracey.

Blaise snorted. "Do you even need to ask?"

Tracey glanced over at Nott. "You're supposed to keep us informed about the Dark Lord, not Draco, remember?"

"Unlike Lucius Malfoy, my father doesn't tell his son everything," said Nott. "But he did mention to me that Macnair was going to Minsk over the summer."

"You have to tell us these things," I said, looking up from my Transfiguration homework. "You know how important my future Death Eater status is to me."

Nott scoffed but said in a low voice, "I overheard my dad talking about the Order."

"The Order?" I asked, leaning forward to hear better. "What's that?"

Nott hesitated, as if debating telling us something, but whatever it was he decided better of it, because he only said, "It sounded like it had something to do with Dumbledore."

"Probably Dumbledore's movement against the Dark Lord," said Blaise. He glanced over at me and added, "Which probably means Potter's involved."

I scowled. "I'm not paying you a sickle for that. I had no way of knowing he was involved."

"She shouldn't pay you for that," said Nott.

Blaise shrugged. "Worth a shot."

Trying not to pry any further into the Order matter (though I was dying to know what Nott wasn't telling us), I turned my attention to the Transfiguration book in front of me. However, any progress on our homework was interrupted by the loud laughter of the Quidditch team. The two Beaters had graduated last year, which meant that their gang (because the Slytherin Quidditch team was definitely a gang) had been reduced by two members. As the team's Seeker, Draco was technically part of the group, but since he and the now-captain Graham Montague tended to challenge each other for the Biggest Prick position, Draco tended to stay clear of the team except during practices.

"Slytherin tryouts are this Saturday," said Pansy dreamily. "We should go watch."

"You just want an excuse to ogle Draco on a broom," I said.

"Please," begged Pansy. "I don't want to go alone."

"I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon," I said honestly.

Tracey nodded in agreement. Blaise and Nott were suddenly occupied with Ancient Runes.

"Think about it." Pansy grabbed my arm. "Fit Quidditch players on broomsticks."

"My mum dated a Welsh Chaser," I said flatly. "Do you know how many Quidditch games she dragged Astoria and me to? And do you know how exhausting it is to listen to Astoria talk about how fit they are. No thank you. I'm done with Quidditch players for the rest of my life."

Pansy's eyes narrowed, and in a calm, deadly voice, she asked, "Who here is the Slytherin prefect?"

"Pixie shite," I said. "You're not pulling that prefect stuff on me."

"Do you want to see what detention with Umbridge is like?" asked Pansy with a glowing smile.

* * *

Saturday morning, before the sun had even fully risen over the horizon, Pansy, Tracey, and I sat in the bleachers of the Quidditch pitch and waited for the members of the Slytherin team to arrive.

I was sprawled out on the wooden seats, my Arithmancy book open in my lap and my breakfast of buttered toast in my hand. Tracey sat beside me, fiddling with the sleeves of her jean jacket and yawning every few minutes. Pansy was the only one of us happy to be there. She had her omnioculars out and was inspecting the attractiveness levels of the people on the pitch.

"Adrian Pucey is fit," she said. "I caught a glimpse of him shirtless once—he has _abs_."

"That's nice," I murmured.

Tracey yawned. She had zero interest in Slytherin's all-male Quidditch team.

Pansy lowered the omnioculars from her eyes and turned to glare at us. "You know, I support your hobbies! Daph, when you wanted to go to that numerologist's lecture in Hogsmeade, I went with you."

"Blaise and I didn't want you to come," I said. "You invited yourself along because you heard that the numerologist was fit."

"Tracey," continued Pansy, completely ignoring me, "when you wanted to check out the school choir, I went with you."

"And got us kicked out because you complained loudly that there were too many mudbloods in the room," said Tracey.

"That's not the important part!" Pansy waved away our words. "The important thing is that I participated in all your weird hobbies, so the least you can do is check out Quidditch players with me."

"You had to threaten us to get us here," I said, "and now you expect us to enthusiastically objectify the players with you?"

"The only reason to go to a Quidditch tryout is to look at the players," said Pansy.

I finished off my breakfast before saying, "Didn't you go see the Gryffindor tryouts with Draco and the minions yesterday? Did Draco check out the players with you? Did he think the Weasley twins were fit?"

Pansy glowered at me. "We were spying on the opposition. It was tactics." She snickered. "Did you know Ron Weasley is their new keeper? Gryffindor is screwed this year."

I kept my mouth shut. Ron Weasley fell into Harry Potter territory.

In an attempt to change the subject, Tracey said, "Millicent and Georgina like fit Quidditch players." She pointed to the opposite side of the pitch, where the two girls were seated in the bleachers. "Why don't you ask them to join you?"

"Georgina called me 'snobby, selfish bitch'," said Pansy. "Like I'm going to spend one second of my time with that slag."

Tracey and I exchanged glances. We had long ago agreed that someone would one day explain to Pansy exactly why she was a snobby, selfish bitch, but we had also decided that we wouldn't be the ones to tell her.

"Didn't you and Georgina make up though?" asked Tracey. "Wasn't that the drama of the Yule Ball last year?"

"Of course we did," said Pansy, "but that doesn't mean I've forgiven her."

"Urg. You're here." A familiar voice filled with familiar disgust came from behind me. I looked up to see blue eyes, chestnut hair, and a prettier version of my face. My younger sister, Astoria, stood in the bleachers, surrounded by her fellow third-year Slytherin girls.

"Hey," I said, waving a hand in greeting. "You here to watch tryouts?"

"Ella's trying out for Beater," said Astoria, taking a seat on the wooden bench behind me. "You?"

"Pansy's here to stalk Draco," I said.

Astoria scowled at Pansy's back. My sister had always loathed Pansy. I didn't think too hard about why though; Pansy had one of those personalities that grated on people's nerves. That being said, the other third-year girls actually idolized Pansy. They saw her as the pretty, older Slytherin girl who had dated Draco Malfoy (no one had the heart to tell the girls that Pansy and Draco's relationship was more like puppy and owner than girlfriend and boyfriend).

"Where's Blaise?" asked Astoria, looking around for him. "I rarely see you two apart."

"Probably sleeping," I said. "He and Nott managed to avoid the tyrant." I pointed at Pansy's back.

"Tracey!" cried Pansy's grabbing the poor girl by the arm. "Draco's here! Doesn't he look good in those robes? Green's definitely his color!"

Astoria wrinkled her nose.

"So how was your first week of classes?" I asked.

"I had Divination for the first time," said Astoria.

I laughed. "I've heard stories about Trelawney."

"You're the smart one," said Astoria. "I should've taken Ancient Runes."

"Just be really morbid and dramatic in your predictions and you'll be fine," I said. "Come on, even Goyle can ace that class."

Astoria's smile quickly faded, and she said, "I got a letter from Mum this morning."

We both knew what letters from Mum meant. During the school year, she only ever remembered our existence when something really good or something really bad had happened with her boyfriend of the time. Two years ago, we'd gotten a long letter talking about her engagement with the Belgian curse-breaker, and then the next month, we'd gotten an even longer letter talking about what an arsehole the curse-breaker was and how the engagement was over. Last year, we'd received a letter about how she'd met a Welsh Chaser and how happy they were together and how they traveled all over the world together. She broke up with the Welsh Chaser over the summer and met the_ Daily Prophet_ reporter that she was currently dating. A letter from her now meant either he had proposed or they had broken up.

"So what happened with the reporter?" I asked.

"She caught him cheating with his co-worker," said Astoria dully. "But never fear—she met a Ministry lawyer named Samuel Blackthorn. He invited her to travel to Norway with him next weekend."

"Great. Just great." I stared down at my Arithmancy textbook. Usually, I was more than happy to read about my favorite subject, but right then, I couldn't bear to look at numbers. I shut the book and shoved it into the bag at my feet. "Was she at least sober when she met the lawyer?"

"Funny," said Astoria. "Her letter didn't say."

We both watched in silence as the other third year girls surrounded Pansy and chatted happily with her about the Quidditch players. Pansy was practically preening like a peacock when one girl called her "Draco's girlfriend".

The one good thing about Pansy's fanclub was that Tracey was finally able to make her escape from the tyrant and join Astoria and me.

"So many mini-Pansys," said Tracey with a shudder. "It's bad enough with just one of her around."

Astoria scowled at Tracey and said, "They aren't mini-Pansys."

"Look at the way they flock around her," I said. "They sort of are mini-Pansys."

"My friends are smart girls," snapped Astoria. "They just don't know what Pansy's really like yet. All they see is the cool, older Slytherin girl who stands up to Harry Potter and his friends."

I kept my mouth shut but gave Tracey a sharp look, urging her to explain why Pansy's actions weren't "standing up to" anyone.

"Daphne would love to tell you that Pansy doesn't stand up to Potter and his friends, she bullies them to impress Draco," said Tracey. "But Daph isn't talking about Harry Potter right now, so she can't open her mouth or she'll owe me a sickle."

Frowning, Astoria looked from Tracey to me and back. "You're joking, right?"

Tracey shook her head. "Daph's making some stand about how she's her own person, not a side character in Harry Potter's life."

Astoria snorted. "Daph, you're stupid."

I was dying to explain to her that by "standing up" to Harry Potter and his friends, we Slytherins were placing Potter in the position of our antagonist. In reality, Potter had done nothing to us, and it was only because he was "Harry Potter" that we regarded him so highly. By ignoring Potter's existence (or, at least, trying to), I was attempting to remove Potter from that pedestal. So far, though, my efforts were failing miserably.

Tryouts continued for the next couple hours. The Slytherin team was missing two Beaters and a Chaser. There were about six people aiming for the beater positions, but to my surprise, the most impressive candidates were Crabbe and Goyle.

"Who would've thought they were good at something besides following Draco around," said Tracey.

"They're always been good at bullying," I said. "Now they get bats and can bully people in the name of the sport."

Tracey shook her head. "At least poor Longbottom isn't on the Gryffindor team."

Tracey and I had a moment of silence for Neville Longbottom, who had been a longtime target of Crabbe and Goyle's bullying. More than once, Tracey had considered telling the minions to leave poor Longbottom alone (after all, he got enough crap from Snape), but one look at Goyle's muscles and Tracey always decided Longbottom could look after himself. Well, no one ever said Slytherins were brave.

"Adrian Pucey is actually pretty good," said Tracey, watching the Chaser candidates race around the pitch on their brooms.

"A lot of my friends like him," said Astoria.

Tracey nodded. "Pansy rants about how fit he is when she's mad at Draco for something."

I shrugged. I'd give Adrian an eight-out-of-ten. Maybe an eight-point-five on a good day. But it didn't matter; my heart refused to be moved until I found someone as good-looking as Cedric Diggory.

"A lot of girls say Roger Davies is perfection on a broom," said Tracey.

"Oh, he is." Astoria leaned back in her seat. "Shame he went out with that veela girl from Beauxbatons last year." She let out a forlorn sigh. "As if I could compete against a veela."

"I heard Davies is an idiot," I said.

"Who told you that?" asked Astoria. "He's in Ravenclaw. He's even captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team—how can he be an idiot?"

"Sue Li," I said. "She says he's book smart, and he knows a hell of a lot about Quidditch strategy, but once, during a game pep talk, he said, 'Legends are forgotten over time, warriors are never forgotten' and then paused to appreciate his own wisdom."

Tracey laughed. "What does that even mean?"

"Whatever," said Astoria. "He doesn't have to be smart as long as I can look at his pretty face all day."

"You're as bad as Pansy," I muttered.

Astoria gasped. "Take that back!"

It was approaching noon and still the tryouts continued. Goyle knocked one of the Chaser candidates off his broom, and Crabbe broke someone's nose. The captain Graham Montague, a seventh-year Chaser, looked very pleased with the bloodshed Crabbe and Goyle had caused so far. As for the Chaser candidates, the Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley had blocked almost every shot thrown his way. Only two candidates had managed to get through, sixth-year Ian Urquhart and seventh-year Adrian Pucey. From the looks of it, Adrian Pucey would make the team and Urquhart would be the reserve. It helped that Adrian Pucey was friends with Graham Montague.

"So what time did Pansy make you lot wake up?"

I looked over my shoulder to see Blaise standing in the bleachers behind me, holding two crumpets. Nott stood next to him, scowling out at the Quidditch pitch. I figured Blaise must have brought him, since Nott preferred to avoid Quidditch as much as possible. Quidditch represented just another thing about him that disappointed his father. The men of the Nott family had apparently all been members of the Slytherin Quidditch team until Nott, and the fact that Nott might prefer Care of Magical Creatures classes to flying lessons frustrated his father to no end.

"Too early," I said to the boys. "Did you bring me food?"

Blaise handed me the second crumpet and sat down next to me on the bleachers. "How's the team look this year?"

"We've had better," I said. "I miss Flint."

"Flint was an arsehole," said Tracey.

"Yeah," I agreed, "but he was a damn good Chaser."

No one argued that point.

Just then, Pansy spotted Blaise and Nott. With a squeal in lieu of greeting, she hurried up the bleachers to join us. Her admiring crowd followed.

"So you'll never guess what brilliant idea Jesse just had," said Pansy, waving a hand in one of the third-year girls' direction.

Blaise glanced at Jesse and managed a weak smile. "What?"

"I was telling them about the Gryffindor tryouts yesterday," said Pansy, "and about how Ron Weasley couldn't save a thing. And Jesse said, 'We should be glad someone as bad as Weasley isn't our keeper. He'll be our king come the Slytherin-Gryffindor match.'"

Blaise nodded, though he didn't understand a word Pansy was saying.

"So Weasley is a shite keeper," I said. "Why do we care?"

"'Weasley cannot save a thing'," said Pansy.

"'He cannot block a single ring'," piped up Jesse. She turned red when Blaise looked at her.

"'That's why Slytherins all sing'," said Pansy, adding a little tune to the words now, "'Weasley is our king.'"

We stared at Pansy blankly.

"Oh good," I said, my voice flat. "You made a song."

"Why?" asked Nott. He sounded genuinely confused.

"Because Weasley struggles with nerves," said Pansy. "It was so obvious at tryouts that even Crabbe and Goyle noticed."

"You want to write a song about Weasley so his nerves get to him," said Nott slowly.

Pansy nodded, her dark eyes were wide and eager.

After a moment, Tracey admitted, "Not a bad idea."

"That's what I thought," said Pansy, sitting down next to Nott. "We need more verses though."

"'He always lets the Quaffle in'," said Tracey, throwing a random line out there. "Except that doesn't rhyme with 'king'."

"And we Slytherins are known for our poetic skills," muttered Blaise.

No one else heard the joke but me.

"We should make sure to insult his home," said Pansy. She had pulled a piece of parchment and a quill out of her shoulder-bag and was writing down the lyrics in her elegant cursive writing. "Weasley always gets upset when we talk about how poor his family is."

"What rhymes with 'in'?" asked Jesse. "Ain, bin, cin, din, ein, fin, gin, hin, jin, kin, lin, min, nin, oin, pin, quin, rin, sin, tin, uin, vin, win…"

"Weasley will make sure we win," said Astoria.

"Oh that's good," said Pansy. "'He always lets the Quaffle in. Weasley will make sure we win. Weasley is our king.'"

"We need another line," said Jesse.

"'Weasley was born in a bin'," said another third-year girl.

I cringed and said, under my breath, "What beautiful poetry…"

"'Born in a bin'?" repeated Blaise, shaking his head. "I know his family is poor…but a bin?"

We listened as Pansy and the girls tried to come up with another verse but in the end settled for just repeating, "'Weasley is our king, Weasley is our king, he always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley is our king.'" I refused to contribute to the song, since while I could appreciate Pansy's brilliant tactics, there were certain lines I didn't like crossing. Coming up with a song to torment Ron Weasley was one of them. I might talk bad about him to my friends from time to time, but I would never say anything to his face.

Tryouts ended with Montague announcing the newest members of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Tracey's and my predictions were right when Montague named Adrian Pucey as the newest Chaser and Crabbe and Goyle as the two Beaters.

It was just past noon when Blaise, Nott, Tracey, Pansy and I left the pitch and made our way back up to the castle. The Great Hall was reasonably full for a Saturday lunch, conversation buzzing over plates of sandwiches, salads, pastas, and fruits. Tracey and Pansy picked a spot at the end of the Slytherin table, furthest from where the professors sat, and we all settled into onto the benches. The plates of fish and chips looked delicious, but the moment I started to reach for the fried food, Pansy sent me a murderous glare, and I remembered our diet. Grimacing, I filled my plate with fruits and vegetables. Blaise, however, noticed my misery, and when Pansy wasn't paying attention, he slipped me some chips under the table.

"Draco!" shrieked Pansy as the Slytherin Quidditch team, cleaned up and exhausted from tryouts, appeared through the doors of the Great Hall.

"Calm down," said Tracey as Pansy leapt up from her seat. "It's not like this is some rare sighting—we see him every day."

"Unfortunately," muttered Nott, and I couldn't agree more.

The sound of Pansy's voice drew Montague (whose crush on her had started sometime last year) over to us, and with Montague came the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. A look of horror crossed Tracey's face when Cassius Warrington, the seventh-year Chaser with a fat head (literal and figurative), sat next to her. Nott looked repulsed when Goyle settled on his left, and Pansy did her best to ignore Montague when he slid into the seat beside her. Draco sat as far away from Pansy as he could with Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him. To make matters even worse, Adrian Pucey decided to take the empty spot next to me.

"Hey, Daphne," said Adrian, helping himself to the plate of fish and chips. "You came to watch tryouts today?"

"I came to watch Pansy watch tryouts," I said.

Adrian frowned. "What?"

"Pansy always gets what she wants," said Blaise.

"She's frightening like that," I said.

Blaise nodded. "She's going to take over the world one day."

We both shuddered.

"When that happens, I'm moving to Antarctica," I said.

"I like penguins," agreed Blaise.

"Can I come?" asked Adrian.

I considered briefly. "Only if you know how to make igloos."

"Igloos don't come from Antarctica," said Blaise, always the know-it-all. "They're North American."

"They're houses made of ice. Antarctica has ice, right?" I said. "Therefore igloos work in Antarctica."

Adrian nodded. "She has a point."

"Don't encourage her," said Blaise. "The moment Daph thinks she's right about something, she goes crazy with the idea."

I couldn't exactly argue, since Blaise was right. I settled for making a face at him and helping myself to salad.

Adrian grinned at me. "Sometimes crazy is good."

I swallowed a mouthful of lettuce and said, "Depends on the type of crazy. There's me crazy and then there's Pansy crazy…"

Adrian and I turned to watch as Pansy attempted to shout down the table at Draco, while Montague desperately tried to carry out a conversation with her about how her summer went.

"I prefer your crazy," said Adrian.

"Me too," I said.

Talking to Adrian Pucey was surprisingly enjoyable. I had figured since he was friends with Montague, Adrian would be the worst of the worst, but he was actually a decent bloke. He liked the Weird Sisters, he was also a fan of the Banchory Bangers, and he was almost as bad at Herbology as I was.

After lunch, the seventh years headed for the library, while Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Tracey, and Pansy led the way back to the Slytherin common room, Draco talking loudly about how he was going to beat Potter for the Snitch this year for sure. I hung back from the rest, and Blaise followed suit, knowing I had something I wanted to say.

"I'm impressed you didn't curse Draco off his broom today," said Blaise.

I snorted. "The temptation was there."

He waited to see if I was ready to talk about whatever was bothering me yet, and when I said nothing, he asked, "How's your sister doing?"

"All right." I hesitated and then added, "We got a letter from Mum today. She broke up with the cheating reporter. She's dating a lawyer now."

"I see." That was all Blaise said and that was all Blaise needed to say. If anyone was going to understand what Astoria and I were going through, it was Blaise. After all, his mother was on her sixth husband; he knew all too well what it felt like to watch man after man come and go in his mother's life.

At first, Astoria and I were wary of the boyfriends. We thought they were trying to replace our dad. Eventually, we met one that we really liked, and we started to see him as father-figure, someone we could rely on. But he left—just as they all did—breaking our mum's heart in the process and our hearts as well. After that, Astoria and I learned to avoid the boyfriends. It was better to not get attached. Attachment just meant disappointment in the end.

Blaise understood all of this. He'd told me one that Husband Number Three had been a great man, the owner of a wizarding manufacturing company. Number Three had given young Blaise a tour of the factory, talking about magical innovations to bring the wizarding world up to modern times. Blaise had admired the man, but Number Three had died of a heart disease when Blaise was eight, and Husband Number Four appeared two months later.

The difference between our mothers, however, was that Letizia Zabini used men like accessories whereas Elizabeth Greengrass used men like floatation devices.

"Ah, well," I said, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. "It could be worse."

"Yeah," said Blaise. "The Dark Lord could still be alive."

I nodded. "That'd be terrible. Even worse, Fudge could be in complete denial, letting the Dark Lord orchestrate his return to power in secret."

Blaise faked a horrified cringe. "Even worse, our incompetent Minister of Magic could have given us a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who won't let us use magic."

"Even worse," I said, "he could have given her to us during our OWL year."

Blaise nodded. "That would be really fucked up."

Blaise and I made eye contact and the entire act fell apart. We started laughing, loud enough that the others stopped walking and turned to stare at us.

"What's so funny?" asked Draco.

Blaise and I just shook our heads, unable to explain.


	5. No One Likes The High Inquisitor

**Chapter Five: No One Likes The High Inquisitor**

The next week passed with much suffering. My professors were all trying to run me to the ground. We were doing vanishing spells in Transfiguration, which I found nearly impossible. Blaise and I had stayed up until the small hours of Wednesday morning until I learned how to vanish a snail properly. Then, we were reviewing summoning spells in Charms class, which I'd promptly forgotten how to do after exams last year. Hannah Abbott and I had hung out in the library for almost seven hours Thursday night, making (or trying to, in my case) books fly from the shelves. In Herbology, at least, the shrubs and I had reached an agreement of sorts where if I didn't talk loudly, they wouldn't try to eat me.

The weekend had been much appreciated. On Friday, Tracey, Pansy and I had stayed up late, rewriting the Hogwarts' Fittest List with Roger Davies coming in first for the boys and Zoe Accrington coming in first for the girls. Saturday, I'd had brunch down by the Great Lake with Sue Li and Stephen Cornfoot. Then, that night, Nott and I had snuck into the kitchens to get a midnight snack from the house elves. We'd almost been caught by the Gryffindor prefects, but thankfully, Nott's spellwork was much better than mine, and he'd managed to distract Weasley and Granger. When we'd returned to the common room, Pansy had been furious. At first, we thought it'd been because she was finally being a proper prefect and wanted to scold us for being out after hours, but then Blaise explained that it was because we didn't bring her back any chocolate éclairs.

Sunday had been dedicated to homework. Tracey and I had worked our arses off trying to finish our Herbology essays on time. Adrian Pucey had come down to the common room at four in the morning to find Tracey and me crying over our parchment, and eEven though he was dreadful at Herbology, Adrian had stayed up to help us finish in time.

Monday morning, Tracey and I dragged ourselves down to the Great Hall for breakfast. We were running on less than three hours of sleep and felt like the Giant Squid had swallowed us and puked us back out.

"You look beautiful," said Pansy, grinning at us over her morning cup of pumpkin juice.

Tracey mumbled something in response and nibbled on a croissant, completely forgetting that carbs for breakfast wasn't part of our diet.

"Look at this." Blaise shoved his copy of the_ Daily Prophet_ under my nose.

"I'm too tired to read," I said, making myself a cup of tea and almost forgetting to add the hot water.

"'Ministry Seeks Educational Reform'," said Blaise, reading the article title aloud, "'Dolores Umbridge Appointed First Ever "High Inquisitor"'."

"Wa' da frack?" asked Tracey through a mouthful of croissant.

"Get this," said Pansy, leaning forward in her seat, "They interviewed Percy Weasley—you know, the older brother—and he's anti-Potter and anti-Dumbledore."

I glared at Pansy. She knew mentioning Potter meant I couldn't join the conversation.

"Listen," said Blaise before continuing, "'Educational Decree Twenty-Three…creates the new position of "Hogwarts High Inquisitor". This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the "falling standards" at Hogwarts… The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch… The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts—"

"Not my parents," scoffed Tracey. "I told Mum about Umbridge last week, and she sent back a letter, saying she was going to complain to Dumbledore and that I can't have a teacher like that during my OWL year."

"As long as it's anti-Dumbledore," said Nott grimly, "my dad's all for it."

Blaise and I exchanged glances. Our parents neither knew nor cared about Hogwarts's "falling standards".

"They have a quote from Lucius Malfoy," said Blaise, turning his attention back to the article. "He says, 'I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation… Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation'."

"Aw," said Tracey, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. "Lucius Malfoy is just so concerned about our well-being."

"Well," said Pansy, "it was dangerous to have a werewolf as our teacher and that half-giant has proven to be an inconsistent professor."

"Lupin actually taught us stuff," said Nott. "Unlike Umbridge."

"Hagrid has the occasional good lesson," added Tracey. "I liked the hippogriffs."

"Wasn't that the lesson where Draco's arm got slashed open because he insulted the hippogriff?" I asked with a dreamy smile. That hippogriff was my hero.

"It was horrible!" cried Pansy. "Draco had gone all pale and there was blood everywhere."

Nott glanced in my direction and wisely decided to steer the conversation away from Draco Malfoy. "I can't believe Umbridge is going to be inspecting other professors."

"Government regulation of schools isn't unusual," said Blaise. "But the inspections aren't usually done by another professor."

"Imagine her inspecting Snape," said Tracey with a laugh.

"Or McGonagall," I added.

"I'd wouldn't be surprised if McGonagall turned her into a toad halfway through the lesson," said Pansy with a giggle.

The rest of breakfast was spent imaging different teachers being inspected by the High Inquisitor. We had Herbology first period, but much to our disappointment, Umbridge was not in the class (we would've enjoyed watching one of the plants try to eat her). Instead, we moved on from self-fertilizing shrubs to Chinese chomping cabbages. By the time the class had ended, I had bite marks all over my forearms.

Afterwards, we had double potions with the Gryffindors. Blaise and I had barely settled in our seats when Snape swept into the classroom and handed back our graded homework assignments from last week.

"I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your OWL," said Snape. "This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in your examination." He reached the front of the room and turned to face the class. "The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week's essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D's."

Malfoy released a barely concealed laugh. "Some people got D's!"

I examined the black A at the top of my paper on moonstones and breathed a sigh of relief. With a teacher like Snape, it helped to be in his house. I glanced over at Blaise and saw the O in the corner of his parchment.

"Show off," I muttered, shoving my essay into my bag.

As per usual, Blaise and I prepared our potions together, and by the end of the class, both of our Strengthening Solutions were the proper shade of turquoise. With a feeling of triumph, I placed my labeled flagon on Snape's desk and went to pack up my things.

"How'd you do?" asked Tracey as we made our way to the Great Hall for lunch.

"Acceptable," said Pansy.

"Same," I said.

Blaise and Nott made eye contact, and then Blaise patted me on the head.

"An 'Acceptable' isn't bad," he said.

"What did you get?" asked Pansy.

"Outstanding," said Blaise and Nott almost in unison.

"Same," said Tracey cheerfully.

"Pansy," I muttered under my breath, "I vote we slip poison in their morning pumpkin juices."

Blaise laughed. "You can't even make a Strengthening Solution without me, Daph, how do you expect to make a poison by yourself."

As we reached the entranceway for the Great Hall, we heard shrill laughter to our right. I looked over and saw a group of fourth-year Ravenclaw girls giggling amongst themselves. There were about four of them in the group, and they were all leaning on each other as they laughed, looking over at Hufflepuff boy who looked to be around their age. The poor boy had been hit what looked like a Jelly-Legs Jinx, and he was clinging to one of the stone pillars in an attempt to keep himself upright. When his legs collapsed beneath him and he landed on the hard floor, the Ravenclaw girls laughed even harder.

I turned to Pansy, and sure enough, Pansy had puffed out her chest to show off her prefects' badge and was making her way across the Entrance Hall. Pansy, of course, had no love Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, and I doubted she cared one whit for the boy being jinxed, but Pansy loved showing off her power over others and this was the perfect chance to do so.

"Hey, horse-face," said Pansy.

To her shame, one of the Ravenclaws looked up in response to "horse-face".

"No spells in the corridors between classes," said Pansy. "And especially not spells against other students. Detention. All of you." She gestured to the Ravenclaw girls. "You should be glad it'll be with Flitwick instead of Umbridge." Pansy gave them a nasty grin. "I hear she makes you write in your own blood."

The color drained from the girls' faces, and they certainly weren't laughing anymore. However, Pansy was merciless as she asked "horse-face", "dog's-breath", "fat-head", and "flobberworm" their real names so she could report them. Then, with a smirk of triumph, Pansy turned around and rejoined our group of friends. Of course, throughout all this, she'd completely forgotten to undo the Jelly-Legs Jinx on the poor Hufflepuff boy, and Nott quickly cast the counter-spell before following us into the Great Hall for lunch.

Students jinxing each other between classes was nothing new. In my opinion, it was the inevitable side effect of teaching a bunch of kids magic, and as much as the professors tried to control the students, we were all idiots and there was no stopping it.

Ravenclaws were probably the worst of the lot when it came to jinxing other students. They liked to be considered one of the "good" houses and remained in most professors' good books, but in truth, Ravenclaws were often a bunch of know-it-alls who wanted to try out a new spell on some poor, unsuspecting underclassman. However, no one really held grudges against the Ravenclaws because at least they treated everyone the same—they hexed Gryffindors for beings prats, they hexed Slytherins for being rude, they hexed Hufflepuffs for being Hufflepuffs, they even hexed other Ravenclaws for being know-it-alls.

Gryffindors and Slytherins, on the other hand, mainly because they most just targeted each other. Occasionally, a "funny" Gryffindor will hex a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw for a joke and an elitist Slytherin will throw a spell in the direction of a muggleborn, but for the most part, the two houses focused on each other. However unlike Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin hexing battles reached a whole different level of mean. I still remembered the fights leading up to the final Quidditch match of the season in my third year. Two students ended up in the Hospital Wing with leeks for ears, Potter couldn't walk anywhere without tripping, Marcus Flint's head had been shrunk to half its regular size, and Angelina Johnson had been rushed to Madam Pomfrey with pus spurting from her nose. Needless to say, no one wanted to get involved in a Gryffindor and Slytherin fight.

Hufflepuff was far and away the best house, or so Hannah Abbott liked to remind me on a regular basis. They very rarely started fights in the corridors, and often they wouldn't even seek revenge if another student did hex them (something the other houses seemed incapable of doing). The only time Hufflepuffs ever really jinxed someone was when they'd seen that person bullying another student. I still remembered the time in fourth year where Cedric Diggory had stopped a Ravenclaw student from hitting Tracey with a Pimple Jinx. I'd never be a Hufflepuff, but one had to admire them.

Our lunch was spent primarily talking about what had happened in the Entrance Hall and why those fourth-year Ravenclaws had jinxed the poor boy. In the end, we all agreed on the theory that the boy had dared to ask one of them out and was now going to be traumatized for the rest of his life. Pansy thought she should ask Flitwick for an extra week's detention just for that.

After Pansy had reported the Ravenclaws to their head of house, it was time for our elective classes, and we parted ways. Ancient Runes was fun as always for me and torture to Blaise and Nott who could never seem to remember the runes. I think they were relieved when the class ended and we headed to Defense Against the Darks Arts—a subject they knew they were better than me at.

After the bell ran to signal the beginning of class that afternoon, Umbridge began the lesson with her usual "Wands away." A few overly optimistic students put their wands back in their bags and took out their textbooks. Tracey and I, who shared a desk this time, had our copies of _Dark Arts Defense_ already open in front of us, prepared for the painfully dull lesson we were about to have.

"As we finished chapter one last lesson," said Umbridge, "I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter two, 'Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.' There will be no need to talk."

I had finished chapter one last week and had already finished chapter two in an attempt to keep myself occupied. Now, I flipped to chapter three and started skimming over the pages of the textbook. Every once in a while, I'd add a doodle of a stick figure putting a hex on toad-Umbridge to the margins.

"Granger's at it again," muttered Tracey under her breath.

I looked up from my doodle and saw that, sure enough, two desks in front of me, Hermione Granger had her hand raised in the air and her gaze fixed on Umbridge. Umbridge was trying to ignore Granger, but as more and more students stopped doing their work and started to watch, Umbridge had little choice but to ask, "What is it this time, Miss Granger?"

"I've already read chapter two," said Granger.

I rolled my eyes. Blaise, Nott, and I had all finished chapter two as well, but we weren't going to brag about it. Common sense said to move on to chapter three.

"Well then, proceed to chapter three," said Umbridge with a toothy smile.

"I've read that too," said Granger. "I've read the whole book."

Tracey scoffed. "Overachiever."

I had never seen a surprised toad until I saw Umbridge's blank face. She quickly recovered, however, and said, "Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in chapter fifteen."

"He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named," said Granger without missing a beat. "He says 'counter-jinx' is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable."

Umbridge was impressed against her will.

"But I disagree," said Granger.

Umbridge's expression grew colder, and in a low voice, she asked, "You disagree?"

"Yes, I do," said Hermione loudly. "Mr. Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they're used defensively."

"Oh, you do, do you?" said Professor Umbridge. "Well, I'm afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger."

Granger opened her mouth to argue. "But—"

"That is enough," said Professor Umbridge, rising from her seat and moving to the window. "Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House."

The Gryffindor students all scowled at this, while Tracey and Pansy exchanged smug smiles. I was glad Gryffindor suffered, but it'd be better if the points taken away were actually deserved.

"What for?"

No one was surprised when Harry Potter's voice filled the classroom.

"Don't you get involved," hissed Granger.

I agreed with Granger. No one liked Umbridge's lessons, but that didn't mean we had to argue with her every single class period. Why couldn't Potter—and Granger, for that matter—put their heads down and pretend to do work like the rest of us for just one class.

"For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions," said Umbridge smoothly. "I am here to teach you using a Ministry approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them—with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects—would have passed a Ministry inspection—"

"Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher," said Potter loudly, "there was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head."

I hid a laugh behind my textbook. Tracey heard and turned to stare at me. I tried to pass the sound off as a cough; I refused to admit that Harry Potter had an impressive sassy streak.

"I think another week's detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter," said Umbridge.

I sighed and returned to the textbook in front of me. Potter and detention was quickly becoming the norm in our Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

* * *

"Can you believe it?" hissed Hermione Granger, her sharp voice interrupting my attempts to solve Problem Seventeen on the Arithmancy worksheet. "Umbridge is Hogwarts' first High Inquisitor."

Ernie Macmillan glanced around nervously as if afraid someone might overhear their conversation and take away his shiny prefect badge. In a low voice, he said, "Well, there are some teachers who ought to be sacked. You know about Professor Trelawney, right? You walked out of her class third year, didn't you?"

"Still," said Granger hotly, "it's _Professor Dumbledore's_ decision."

Tuesday had brought with it beautiful weather, and sunlight streamed in through the window of the Arithmancy classroom, while the few fifth-year students who had decided to take a math class instead of Care of Magical Creatures or Divination were pouring over sheets of numbers.

Personally, I enjoyed Arithmancy. I liked learning how to predict the future and detect signs of magic with numbers, learning a way to understand magic beyond just saying random words and waving a wand. It was the most mentally challenging class I was taking, but it was also the most interesting. And of course, I was also very good at it.

"Did you get Problem Twelve?" asked Blaise, leaning over to examine the scribbles on my spare piece of parchment. "The number 823,543 keeps coming up."

"It's seven multiplied by itself seven times," I said.

Blaise squinted at the parchment in front of him. "It is?"

"Magical numbers multiplied by themselves occurring naturally indicate magical interference," I explained.

"I know that," said Blaise. "But what does that have to do with—"

"Did you hear what happened?" asked Granger. "Umbridge inspected the fifth year Divination class."

Macmillan nodded. "I heard Umbridge demanded that Trelawney make a prediction on the spot."

"Harry told me," said Granger. "That Trelawney—as per usual—predicted grave danger and Umbridge scoffed and said 'Well, if that's the best you can do…'"

"She said that in front of the whole class?" asked Macmillan, scandalized.

Granger nodded.

I'd always liked Tuesdays because I had no classes with Gryffindor house. The only Gryffindor I had to see the entire day was Hermione Granger in Arithmancy, and today, she was doing her best to make up for the absence of the rest of her house.

I turned to Blaise and said, more loudly than necessary, "Is 859 a prime number?"

Blaise opened his textbook and flipped to the table of prime numbers in the back. "Looks like it."

"How can they force that horrible woman on us?" asked Granger. "And fifth year too. We've had bad Defense Against the Dark Arts professors in the past, but she's the worst by far. I don't want to fail my OWL just because the Minister of Magic doesn't want to believe You-Know-Who is back."

I glared at Hermione's back. Yes, Umbridge was terrible. Yes, the Ministry shouldn't be interfering with Hogwarts. Yes, we would all like to pass our OWLs. But _some people_ were actually trying to do their Arithmancy work right now and didn't want to hear about what a horrible person Dolores Umbridge was.

"Try not to kill her," muttered Blaise.

"Justin, Zacharias, and I were talking about getting the older students to teach us," said Macmillan. "They've already passed their Defense Against the Dark Arts OWLs, so they know what will be on the test."

"That's a good idea," said Granger. "But are the older students willing to teach the material? Don't they have their own exams to study for?"

"We haven't asked yet," said Ernie.

Granger went very still all of a sudden, as if she was considering something. I didn't think too hard on the meaning behind Granger's silence though, since I could finally work on Problem Eighteen in peace.

* * *

"Daph," said Hannah Abbott, as patiently as possible, "please concentrate. I don't want to have to put out any fires this time."

We were sitting in Charms class wands out and textbooks open. Flitwick had decided to start out the year by doing some revision, which meant we had already practiced the Summoning and Banishing charms and were now moving on to the fire-making spell. Last year, it'd taken me three weeks to learn how to perform the spell with moderate efficiency. That had been three weeks of Hannah ducking and dodging the spout of flames coming from my wand; she had become very good at putting out fires.

"Sorry," I muttered. I pointed at the unlit candle placed on desk between us and, with a flick of my wand, said, "_Incendio_."

The corner of the desk caught on fire.

"_Finite Incantatem_," said Hannah with a wave of her own wand.

The fire vanished, leaving only a black scorch mark on the desk's surface.

"Oops." I grinned sheepishly. "Have I ever told you that you're the best Charms partner ever?"

"Every year," said Hannah with a smile. "But really," she added, lowering her voice, "you should ignore Umbridge."

"How can I ignore her?" I asked.

We both glanced at the front of the room where Umbridge, clad all in pink, sat behind Flitwick's desk, making notes on her little clipboard. I hadn't seen Umbridge evaluate a professor yet, though I'd certainly heard a lot about it from Tracey, Pansy, and Nott. Apparently, Umbridge had been present for their Care of Magical Creatures lesson, and Umbridge had been praising Grubbly-Plank while dropping sharp jabs at Hagrid. Pansy had been hopeful that Hagrid would be fired if he ever returned, while Nott and Tracey reluctantly admitted they preferred Grubbly-Plank as a teacher.

Flitwick, it seemed, had no problem with Umbridge, and he had welcomed her into the classroom as if she were a long-lost friend. He'd returned our graded homework assignments, talked to us about the theory of the fire-making charm, and then had us pair-off to practice the spell. He was orderly, informative, and practiced in his teaching methods; Umbridge had nothing to complain about. Except, maybe, my inability to set a candle on fire.

"I had her for Muggle Studies," said Hannah in a low voice. "She did much the same. Asked a few questions. Wondered if Muggle Studies was really an appropriate subject. Asked the professor a couple questions and then left."

"Did she really ask if Muggle Studies was an appropriate subject?" I asked, mortified.

Hannah nodded. "Professor Burbage gave her a long lecture on the importance of cultural awareness."

"Good," I said. As I turned back to the candle, I muttered, "Our Ministry representative is a wizarding elitist. Great."

"She used to be in Slytherin," said Hannah with a wry smile at me. She had listened to more than one of my Slytherin reputation speeches.

"I've never been more ashamed of my house," I said. "But really—of all the people the Ministry could have given us, they chose Umbridge."

"Don't talk too loudly," said Hannah.

I opened my mouth to start a long rant about how there should be laws limiting the Ministry of Magic's interference with the school's curriculum, and someone should inspect Umbridge as she was inspecting other teachers, but just then I noticed that Umbridge's gaze was fixed on me, and I decided it was safer to keep my mouth shut.

Hannah waved her wand and said, "_Incendio_". Immediately, a small flame appeared at the top of the candlewick.

I glowered at her.

"Practice," said Hannah. "That's all it takes."

"That's what McGonagall said when I failed to vanish my mouse yesterday," I muttered.

"You still can't vanish your mouse?" asked Hannah. She tried to hide her shock when she noticed my murderous glare.

"It turned opaque," I said grimly. "Which isn't exactly vanished. But Blaise and I have been practicing every night, so I'll get there eventually."

Hannah glanced over her shoulder at the back of the classroom where Blaise and Pansy were taking turns setting their candle on fire. Hannah turned pale and quickly looked away before Pansy caught her staring. For some reason, Pansy terrified Hannah.

"She's not that scary," I said. "You just have to know how to handle her. _Incendio_."

A ball of fire formed over the candle instead of just one small flame.

"_Finite Incantatem_," said Hannah, waving away the flames with her wand. "She's a bully. I don't know how you're friends with her."

"She's fun." I tried to find the right words to describe Pansy. "Yes, she says some mean things, but I think she'll grow out of that. Personally, I think it's her obsession with Draco that's the real problem. She keeps trying to impress him by tormenting the younger students."

"And Neville," said Hannah in a soft voice. The tops of her ears had turned bright red.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't get what you see in Longbottom—he has a pet toad."

"Don't judge people by their pets."

"Haven't you heard the saying that people come to look like their pets?" I asked. "Just imagine what Longbottom's going to look like in five years' time."

Hannah bit her bottom lip and tried not to smile. "Really, Daph?"

I jerked my head in Umbridge's direction and said, "I bet you anything our High Inquisitor used to have a toad for a pet."

Hannah glanced over at Umbridge's squat build, flabby face, and wide mouth. Covering her mouth with her hand, Hannah collapsed into a fit of giggles. "No!" she whispered between laughs. "Neville will never look like that."

Umbridge glanced over in Hannah's direction with a disapproving scowl.

I waved my wand, tried to picture Umbridge's broad face instead of the candlewick, and said, "_Incendio_."

The sleeve of my robe caught fire.


	6. A Meeting To Which I Was Not Invited

**Chapter Six: A Meeting To Which I Was Not Invited**

"Umbridge inspected our Transfiguration class," Sue Li told me as we made our way through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade.

October had brought with it strong winds, and our first Hogsmeade weekend was bitter, cold, and gusty. Sue had her blue and bronze Ravenclaw scarf pulled up over her mouth to keep her warm. Her black hair was pulled in all directions by the wind, and loose strands kept coiling on top of her head. Her boyfriend, Stephen Cornfoot, walked beside her, his cheeks red and his eyes watery. I was sure I looked no better. I had to keep pushing my ash-blonde hair out of my face, and the ends of my silver and green scarf kept flapping about in the wind.

"How'd that go?" I asked loudly, trying to be heard over the roaring wind.

"McGonagall was not happy," said Sue. "Umbridge kept interrupting her and asking how 'Ministry approved' her methods were."

I laughed. "I wish I could've seen McGonagall's face."

"McGonagall's a badass," said Stephen cheerfully.

We walked past Zonko's Joke Shop, and I spotted the red-haired Weasley twins and their friend Lee Jordan coming out with shopping bags. Then we passed the post office with dozens of owls flying to and from the roosting tower. A little ways down the street, we saw a wooden sign depicting a boar's severed head leaking blood. The sign swayed back and forth in the wind, but we could still make out the words "Hog's Head".

Sue wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Let's go to the Three Broomsticks."

"It's always crowded," complained Stephen. "I bet there's plenty of room in the Hog's Head."

He saw Sue and me glaring at him and let out a laugh. We'd let Stephen talk us into going to the Hog's Head once before. The bartender had served us firewhiskey in filthy glasses despite us being underage, and we'd returned to the castle that evening sick and slightly drunk.

"Just joking," said Stephen with a nervous laugh. "You two take everything so seriously."

Stephen and Sue were the first people I'd made friends with at Hogwarts. We'd shared a compartment on the train first year, and well, some friendships just sort of stick. Taking trips to Hogsmeade was our "thing", and even after Stephen and Sue had started dating last year thanks to the Yule Ball, we continued to visit Hogsmeade together. I fully embraced my role as the third wheel.

"There's always Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop," said Stephen, his grin widening.

Sue sighed and turned to me. "Why are we friends with him again?"

"I don't know," I said. "You're the one who snogs him on a regular basis."

The three of us had gone to Madam Puddifoot's once because Sue had wanted some tea. We had entered the pink, fluffy paradise and been seated before we could realize what a big mistake we'd just made. All of Madam Puddifoot's tables were made for couples, which meant the three of us were crammed around one miniscule tea table. Then, we were given strange looks by the couples who were on dates; Stephen swore he overhead one girl asking her boyfriend if polygamy was legal in Scotland.

"I vote the Three Broomsticks," said Sue. "No matter how crowded it is, it's better than the Hog's Head or Madam Puddifoot's."

"I second that," I said, readjusting my scarf. "I need a butterbeer."

"Am I the only one who doesn't like butterbeer?" asked Stephen as we started back down the cobblestone road. "It reminds me of cheap cream soda."

"Where do you get cream soda from?" asked Sue. "It tastes like butterscotch—" She broke off, her gaze caught on someone down the road.

I followed her line of sight and saw a curly, red-haired Hogwarts' student entering the Hog's Head, a blue and bronze scarf wrapped around her neck.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Why is Marietta Edgecomb visiting the Hog's Head?" wondered Stephen.

"I don't know," said Sue. "But Cho was with her."

"Who's Marietta Edgecomb?" My knowledge of the Ravenclaw students was rather lacking. The only Ravenclaw student outside our year that I knew were the attractive blokes and Cho Chang, who I still hadn't forgiven for dating Cedric Diggory last year.

"She's one of Cho's friends," said Sue. "All I know is she giggles a lot."

"You can always hear her in the common room," said Stephen, shaking his head.

"It's a pain when you're trying to do Charms homework and all you hear is Marietta's high-pitched giggle," added Sue.

"What's going on?" asked Stephen abruptly.

The three of us watched as another Hogwarts student entered the Hog's Head. This one was a petite girl with white-blonde hair and dreamy expression on her face. Judging by her scarf, she was another Ravenclaw student.

"Is Ravenclaw house having a meeting in Hog's Head that you two don't know about?" I asked.

"There is no way Luna Lovegood got invited and we didn't," said Sue. "Her dad runs _The Quibbler_, and she's, uh, sort of out of it."

Tracey liked to read _The Quibbler_ as a comedy piece, so I knew exactly what Sue was talking about.

"But aren't those girls in Gryffindor?" asked Stephen, pointing down the street.

We watched in silence as the three Gryffindor chasers (I think their names were Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell) made their way to the front door of the Hog's Head and slipped inside.

"They do know the Hog's Head is unsanitary, right?" asked Stephen.

"They're not going there for the drinks," I said. "They obviously want to be left alone."

"Why?" asked Sue.

"And why weren't we invited to this?" asked Stephen.

We continued to watch as two tiny Gryffindor boys who might have been brothers entered the Hog's Head followed by four Hufflepuffs. I recognized Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley even though they had their heads bowed against the wind, and I was shocked to see Hannah Abbott slip into the Hog's Head behind Susan Bones. I couldn't believe Hannah would join this secret club of Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, and Hufflepuffs and not tell me. I folded my arms across my chest and gritted my teeth against the sharp wind. Hannah was in for the interrogation of a lifetime next Charms class.

"Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot," said Sue, naming each one of the fifth-year Ravenclaw boys who entered the Hog's Head after Hannah.

Not long after them came the red-haired Ginny Weasley and then Zacharius Smith, one of the arsehole of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. The last three people we saw entered the Hog's Head were the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan.

Sue, Stephen, and I waited a little longer to see if anyone else was coming for the meeting, but it seemed everyone had arrived.

"Should we go in and see what it's all about?" asked Stephen.

I couldn't help but notice that no Slytherin students had entered the Hog's Head. I knew we didn't have the best reputation in school, but a small part of me hurt to know we'd been entirely left out of this super secret meeting.

"Nah," I said. "I want a butterbeer."

"Really?" Sue was surprised. "Aren't you usually all over conspiracy theories?"

"You know there's some real good gossip going on in the Hog's Head right now," added Stephen.

"I'm reforming my ways," I said, starting down the street again in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

In total honesty, a part of me wanted to storm into the Hog's Head and demand to know what was going on—maybe throw in a good rant about how unfairly they were treating Slytherin house. But another part of me guessed that a secret meeting off-campus had to have something to do with Umbridge, and I didn't want to break up any movement against Umbridge's reign. Besides, judging by the people who had entered the Hog's Head (the high amount of Weasleys) I figured Harry Potter was involved. After all, he was main character of our school—if there was going to be a movement against Umbridge, it would only be right that Potter was behind it. And I refused to get involved with Potter's life.

* * *

That night, when we were recounting our Hogsmeade adventures, I thought about mentioning the super secret Hog's Head meeting to my friends, but I didn't trust Pansy not to go running to Draco with the news. Draco, being a my-dad-works-for-the-Ministry brat, would definitely tell Umbridge, and that would be the end of the anti-Umbridge movement. I didn't want that. Instead, I just told my friends that Sue, Stephen, and I had gone to the Three Broomsticks.

Pansy had stayed at school because of prefect duties, but she was happy to do so since it meant she'd be with Draco. Tracey, on the other hand, had a date with some sixth year Ravenclaw girl, but it had ended when the Ravenclaw girl's friends had seen them and made snide comments about low-standards to date a Slytherin. Tracey had waited for the girl to say something on her behalf, but when the girl had only stammered something about "slim pickings" at Hogwarts, Tracey had stormed off. Thankfully, she'd run into Blaise and Nott, and the three of them had gorged themselves on sweets at Honeydukes.

I'd planned to tell at least Blaise about the meeting that night, but Tracey had begged him to help her with her Transfiguration homework, leaving me alone with Pansy and Nott. I trusted Nott, of course, but for some reason, Pansy refused to go up to the girls' dormitory without me, so in the end, I'd just said a sad "goodnight" to Nott and went upstairs.

By the time Sunday came, I was so busy with homework that I completely forgot to tell my friends about the movement. It wasn't until Monday morning, when we passed by the Slytherin noticeboard on the way to breakfast and Nott spotted Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four, that I remembered.

"'All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded'," Blaise read aloud. "'An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students. Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor, Professor Umbridge… Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.'"

Pansy gasped. "Does that include the Slytherin Quidditch team?"

Rather than Quidditch, my mind went first to the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students slipping into the Hog's Head. That was definitely a meeting of three or more students, and somehow, I didn't think Umbridge would approve of whatever kind of student organization, society, team, group, or club that had been formed in the Hog's Head.

"I'm sure Draco and the Quidditch team will be fine," said Blaise, still staring at the noticeboard. "I think Umbridge is targeting a different kind of club."

"And she likes Slytherin," said Nott. "It's the Gryffindor Quidditch team that should be worried."

"Maybe she'll threaten Potter with the reformation of the Gryffindor Quidditch team," said Blaise thoughtfully. "To get him to keep his mouth shut in class."

"I heard she likes giving Potter detention though," said Tracey. "It shows she's in control."

"It's the Ministry's doing," said Nott. "My dad was telling me over the summer about how Fudge is terrified Dumbledore's trying to form a student army and take over the Ministry."

I let out a snort of laughter. "What?"

"Fudge has crazier theories than you, Daph," said Tracey, shaking her head.

"This is ridiculous," I said as we made our way up to the Great Hall for breakfast. "I'm pretty sure Dumbledore could become Minister of Magic all on his own if he wanted to. Didn't someone offer him the position a few years ago—before Fudge."

"Dumbledore could have any job he wanted," said Blaise. "Fudge is a paranoid nutjob."

By the time we had reached the Great Hall, the conversation had changed to whether or not Umbridge would be evaluating any of our classes today. As we settled down in our regular seats at the end of the Slytherin table, I wondered if I could find a spare moment to tell Blaise about the Hog's Head.

I glanced over at the far side of the hall and saw that Potter, Weasley and Granger were surrounded by their fellow Gryffindors—many of whom I'd seen entering the Hog's Head on Saturday. They were speaking in frantic voices, and Granger kept glancing up at the teacher's table.

I watched as Hannah and Macmillan rose from the Hufflepuff table and started making their way across the Great Hall towards Potter. I almost wanted to call out to Hannah and tell her that going to the Gryffindor table would alert Umbridge to the organization. However, I kept my mouth shut and watched as Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot started heading towards Potter as well.

Lucky for them, Granger noticed the other students heading towards her and she started to warn them away. Ginny Weasley bounded across the Great Hall to give Corner a quick kiss and tell him and his friends to sit back down.

My suspicions of Potter being involved with the Hog's Head meeting were definitely confirmed—which meant that telling Blaise about the incident would put me out a sickle. Still, this had nothing to do with me being a side character and this school being Pottercentric; this had to do with a movement against Umbridge, a movement from which we Slytherins were being deliberately excluded.

However, I didn't find a moment alone with Blaise during breakfast, and McGonagall watched us students like a hawk throughout Transfiguration class. It wasn't until we were making our way down to the dungeons for double potions with the Gryffindors that I managed to separate Blaise from Draco, Pansy, and the others.

"What's going on?" asked Blaise in a low voice as the other students got further and further ahead of us. "You've been jumpy all morning."

"I owe you a sickle," I said.

Blaise raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Education Decree Number Twenty-Four exists because Potter's forming a student organization against Umbridge."

Blaise stared at me for a moment and then let out a long sigh. "That theory is worth three sickles, Daph. What happened to ignoring Potter?"

"Well," I said. "I would ignore Potter except Sue, Stephen, and I saw a bunch of Hogwarts students going into the Hog's Head on Saturday." I explained to Blaise what we'd seen and what had happened this morning, and I watched as understanding dawned on his face. Then, his expression darkened and a scowl tugged at his lips.

"I know they don't trust Slytherins," said Blaise. "Our reputation precedes us, but do they think we like Umbridge or something? We want to get rid of her just as much as they do."

I opened my mouth to respond, but we had just reached Snape's classroom and Draco's snide voice filled the hallway, forcing the gathered Gryffindor and Slytherin students to listen to him.

"Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway. I went to ask her first thing this morning," said Draco loudly. "Well, it was pretty much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really well; he's always popping in and out of the Ministry… It'll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are allowed to keep playing, won't it?"

I couldn't see Draco over the heads of the other students, so I just glared in his general direction.

"It wouldn't kill him to shut up for ten minutes," muttered Blaise.

"No one gives a hippogriff shit about his father," I added.

"I mean," said Malfoy, his voice getting even louder, "if it's a question of influence with the Ministry, I don't think they've got much chance. From what my father says, they've been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years."

Standing a little ways down from Blaise and I was the Golden Trio. Weasley's freckled face was contorted with rage, and it seemed as though Granger was holding Potter back with a hand on the sleeve of his robes.

"And as for Potter," said Draco, "My father says it's a matter of time before the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo's. Apparently they've got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic—"

Of all the things that could have happened next, I would never have predicted it. Neville Longbottom—the pitiful Gryffindor boy who had a toad for a pet and had spent the last four years being bullied by Crabbe and Goyle—threw himself through the crowd of students and started hitting and punching and kicking and biting Draco.

Someone screamed, "Neville, _no_!"

Potter lunged forward and tried to drag Longbottom. Personally, I was urging Longbottom on, hoping he would do some serious damage to Draco—maybe break something important.

Crabbe and Goyle moved forward, preparing to deal with Longbottom, but Nott dropped his shoulder-bag at just the right time. He stepped in front of Crabbe and Goyle, bending down to pick up his bag and fallen books. Crabbe and Goyle stopped in their tracks to avoid colliding with Nott, giving Potter and Weasley just enough time to pull Longbottom away from Draco.

Longbottom's face was bright red, and his bottom lip was bleeding a little. Spluttering, Neville said something along the lines of "Not…funny…Mungo's…show…him…"

My heart twisted uncomfortably. Some time in our third year, Nott had told us about Neville Longbottom's family. Bellatrix Lestrange, a Death Eater and friend of Nott's father, had tortured Longbottom's parents to insanity, and they now lived in a ward of St. Mungo's, not even recognizing their own son when he came to visit.

Form behind us, there came the cold, sneering voice of Snape. "Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom? Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention." He turned his dark eyes on the rest of us. "Inside, all of you."

The Slytherin and Gryffindor students made their way into the classroom. I made sure to "accidentally" kick Draco when I walked by. Blaise rolled his eyes at me but didn't say anything as we settled into our seats and set up our workstation.

"Fuck Draco," I muttered under my breath. "He gives us Slytherins a bad name."

Blaise nodded, but his eyes were focused on something in the far, dimly lit corner of the dungeon.

Snape closed the door behind him and made his way to the front of the classroom. "You will notice," he said, "that we have a guest with us today."

With this, I finally saw who Blaise had been looking at. Umbridge was seated in the corner, clipboard on her knee a cardigan as pink as ever, watching with narrowed eyes as Snape paced about the front of the classroom.

"We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions today," said Snape, "you will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson, if correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend—instructions on the board. Carry on."

The first part of the lesson went on as usual. Blaise muttered instructions to me while I tried desperately not to screw up. My potion, thankfully, was reasonably close to the color the textbook indicated.

Towards the end of class, Umbridge rose from her stool and made her way to the front of the classroom where Snape was flipping through the potions book.

"Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level," said Umbridge briskly. "Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus."

Snape stared at her coldly.

"Now, how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?" asked Umbridge, quill poised over clipboard.

"Fourteen years," said Snape stiffly.

I wasn't always Snape's biggest fan; I didn't like his teaching methods or his treatment of the other houses. But Snape cared about us Slytherins and I certainly liked him better than Umbridge. I willed Snape to show her exactly who was the most frightening professor in this school and why.

"You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?" asked Umbridge.

"Yes." Snape's voice was low and deadly.

"But you were unsuccessful?"

Snape's lip curled. "Obviously."

After scribbling something else on her clipboard, Umbridge asked, "And you have applied regularly for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?"

Snape was white with rage. "Yes."

"Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?" asked Umbridge, continuing along the same stupid line of questioning.

"I suggest you ask him," said Snape.

Umbridge gave him her sweetest smile and said, "Oh, I shall."

And then she walked away to ask Pansy about the class. Disappointment curled in my stomach. I had expected greater things from Snape, more sarcasm and disdain. Instead, Umbridge had succeeded in pissing off Snape.

Eventually, Umbridge moved to Blaise and me. With a wide smile, she asked, "And what do you two think of this class?"

"It's challenging," said Blaise, while I glowered at Umbridge. "But we learn a lot."

"And do you do well in this class?" asked Umbridge.

"Some of us," said Blaise.

Umbridge glanced at me and made a soft tut-tutting sound in the back of her throat. I longed to pull my homework out of my bag and shove my "Acceptable" in her face. However, before I could do that, she turned away from us and headed across the room to talk to Draco. Blaise waited until she was out of earshot before hitting me on the back of the head and hissing, "Are you stupid? Stop glaring."

"I hate her," I said.

"We all do," said Blaise. "But don't let her know that."

"We're not all good at acting like you are," I muttered, stirring my cauldron clockwise.

"The instructions say counter-clockwise," said Blaise, wrenching the stirring spoon out of my hands.

I sighed and leaned back on my stool. "What would I do without you, Zabini?"

"Fail Potions."

* * *

I dropped my bag onto the Charms desk with a heavy thud. "Hannah Abbott, we need to talk."

Hannah stared up at me with wide, brown eyes. "About what?"

Slowly, I lowered myself into my seat. Glaring at her with all my might, I said, "Why did you join a secret society without telling me?"

At first, she looked puzzled. Then, the blood slowly drained from her face. She gulped and looked down at the cover of her Charms textbook. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I scoffed. However, she looked as though she might faint at any second, so I tried to tone down the anger and said as kindly as possible, "Hannah, you could never be a master criminal."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stubbornly.

When I'd imagined confronting Hannah in class, I'd planned on keeping the conversation teasing, but her denial caused my stomach to twist. She was treating this like a dead serious matter. But I couldn't just put aside my annoyance either, and I ended reaching for some sort of middle ground. I pulled my Charms textbook out of the bag and dropped it onto the desk with a dull thud. "It's 'cause I'm a Slytherin, isn't it?"

Hannah blinked and finally made eye contact with me. "What?"

"I saw you entering the Hog's Head," I explained. "Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws all went inside but no Slytherins." I made sure to add an extra dose of affrontedness to my tone. "I get it, I get it. I'm a terrible, elitist, racist Slytherin who's destined to be an evil henchwoman of the Dark Lord—I don't get invited to the secret meetings."

Hannah opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to find the right words. "No… No, no. Daph, you're not like the other Slytherins."

I scowled at her. "'The other Slytherins'? You mean my friends?"

"I mean like Draco Malfoy," said Hannah hurriedly, "and Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy Parkinson."

"Pansy is my friend."

"And you insult her all the time," said Hannah. "You know what she's like to people who aren't Slytherins. You know how she treats Neville and Hermione—"

"Stop." I couldn't argue with Hannah's words. I knew Pansy. I knew she'd tormented Hermione Granger on numerous occasions. Hannah had once told me she'd stumbled across Granger crying in the girls' bathroom because Pansy had teased her about her buck teeth. And I knew that after Nott had told us the story about Longbottom's parents, Pansy had made several snide comments about St. Mungo's to Longbottom. And I knew that Pansy had called Hannah a blood traitor on more than one occasion. I wasn't blind or stupid, but I'd had a lot of good times over the years with Pansy and I at least wanted to believe that she wasn't wholly irredeemable.

"Sorry," said Hannah, staring down at the wooden surface of the desk. "I know she's your friend."

I sighed. "You're not wrong."

"And, uh…" Hannah managed a weak smile for me. "I'm not in a secret society. And if I were, I couldn't tell you about it because it's not my secret to tell." Hannah chose her words very carefully. "But if I were the head of a secret society, you would be one of the first people I'd invite to join."

I stared at Hannah for a moment, trying to sift through all her carefully selected words. Then, a wide smile spread across my face and I said, "Thanks. I'd invite you too. We'd be the secret society of people who put library books back on the wrong shelves."

Hannah gasped. "It was one time. And it was two years ago!"

"You're so evil." I shook my head and tried to look sad. "Imagine how many days it took for Madam Pince to find that book…scourging the shelves to the point of exhaustion…maybe she thought she was losing her mind, because she was sure she put it back in the right place. She probably had an existential crisis because of you."

Hannah placed hand over her mouth. "Oh, don't joke about that. Now I feel bad. Maybe we should go to the library after class and see if she's found the book yet."

"Sometimes I can't believe someone as nice as you exists," I said. My eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're human?"

"Daphne."

"Just checking." I shrugged.

Our conversation came to an end as Flitwick tapped the end of his wand on his desk to let us know that class had started. He spent most of the period lecturing us on the theory behind mending charms. By the end of class, Hannah was putting broken dishes back together with a flick of her wand, while I kept breaking them further. At least I was better off than Tracey, who had somehow managed to knock out Susan Bones with a flying Charms textbook.

When the bell rang to signal the end of class, Hannah and I went our separate ways. Hannah went to the Hospital Wing with her fellow Hufflepuffs to see how Bones was doing, and I made my way down to the Great Hall for dinner with the rest of the fifth year Slytherins. As we walked, Draco and Pansy laughed loudly about the expression on Bones's face when Tracey's textbook had hit her. Tracey was red with embarrassment and kept muttering under her breath that it'd been an accident and she'd been aiming for the broken teacup.

"She'll be fine," I said before sending a glare in Draco's direction. "Madam Pomfrey can fix concussions in a heartbeat."

"Still," said Tracey, "you should have seen the murderous looks Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley were giving me."

"Well, you definitely didn't improve our Slytherin reputation," said Blaise as we entered the Great Hall.

"If Draco and Pansy hadn't laughed, you could have explained it was an accident," added Nott. "It wasn't your fault."

Tracey fiddled with the strap of her shoulder bag. "Smith was yelling at me."

"Zacharias Smith is a tool," I said. "And Hannah knows it was an accident. She'll explain."

Tracey sighed. "You're right. But still, I'd rather get through one year of school where the other houses didn't hate us."

"Not going to happen." I slid into my regular seat at the end of the Slytherin table. "We might as well embrace our reputations and be bad to the bone."

Blaise, Tracey, and Nott sat with me, while Pansy followed Draco and his friends to the middle of the table. Apparently, Pansy thought she was too good to sit with us today.

"You couldn't be bad to the bone if you tried," said Blaise.

"Sure I could." I watched as food materialized on the plates in front of us. Since Pansy wasn't with us, I helped myself to the mashed potatoes. "All I have to do is dress in black and talk about pureblood superiority. You know, the Dark Lord will come to power again and all that kill the mudbloods stuff."

A Hufflepuff third year, who just so happened to be walking by the Slytherin table, glanced at me. When we made eye contact, a look a sheer terror crossed her face, and she raced across the hall to get as far away from me as possible.

"Now who's adding to our Slytherin reputation?" asked Blaise.

"That," I said grimly, "was an unfortunate accident." I briefly wondered if I should go after the third year to explain jokes and the negative consequences of believing the Slytherin reputation to her. However, I almost never explained my theory on the Slytherin reputation to people outside our house, so I remained seated and ate some more of my mashed potatoes.

"Did you hear what happened in Divination today?" asked Tracey.

Nott didn't even look up from his plate. "Umbridge."

Tracey nodded. "She put Trelawney on probation."

I paused, fork halfway to my mouth, and asked, "What?"

"Trelawney spent half the class rambling about what a horrible, close-minded person 'that woman' was and about how Seers have been persecuted throughout history by non-believers."

Blaise shook his head. "Has Trelawney made one true prediction since you've taken her class?"

"Well," said Tracey thoughtfully, "third year, she predicted 'one of our number would leave us forever' and Granger did quit the class for good. But I don't know how much of that was foresight and how much was luck."

"She must be a true Seer if Dumbledore hired her," I said.

Nott nodded. "Dumbledore may be many things, but a crackpot old fool he is not—despite what _The Daily Prophet_ says."

"I thought newspapers were supposed to be more reliable," muttered Tracey.

"Even if they try to be neutral, newspapers are just another form of propaganda," I said through a mouthful of potatoes. "They're about as reliable as my spellwork."

Tracey shuddered. "Why do we read the paper again?"

"It's good to be informed," said Blaise. "Don't you want to know what the Ministry is telling the masses?"

"I'd rather the Ministry tell the masses the truth," said Tracey.

"There you go," I said. "Career option for you. We have those career planning survey things come April, right?"

Tracey groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Don't remind me."

"My family has begun sending me letters," said Nott gloomily. "They all want me to work for the Ministry. And then there are the subtle hints that there will always be a position among the Death Eaters for me."

Tracey glanced up from her hands and grimaced. "Yeah, my issues can't really rival that."

"I already know what I want to do," said Blaise.

"What?" asked Tracey.

I listened as Blaise explained his plans for his late stepfather's company, which currently produced Quidditch supplies. I'd heard Blaise's future career stories many times during our late night spell practice. Before his death, Number Three had talked about bringing the wizarding world up to modern times, and Blaise wanted to make this a reality. Blaise could spend hours talking about muggle inventions—cellphones, televisions, cars, and ballpoint pens—being enhanced by magic. He'd been very impressed second year by Weasley's flying car.

"Well some people have it all figured out," muttered Tracey when Blaise had finished. She glanced at me and asked, "What about you? You're lost and confused like me, aren't you?"

"Actually," I said, "I want to be an arithmancer. There's a lot you can do with numbers and magic that hasn't been explored yet—"

"Merlin's knickers, Daph!" cried Tracey. "You're supposed to be as aimless as I am."

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry for having direction."

"Nott doesn't have direction," Blaise told Tracey. "You two can bond together."

"Actually," said Nott, "I want to be an auror."

Unfortunately, I had just taken a huge sip of water and I spat it out all over my plate. Coughing and choking, I managed to ask, "What?"

"That's gross, Daph," said Tracey, scowling down at my plate.

Nott hesitated. Right then, the dishes in front of us disappeared and were replaced by dessert. Nott's explanation was put on hold as he slid a slice of apple pie on his plate. Then, before taking a bite, he said, "I haven't exactly told my family that yet."

"I can see why," I said. "Why do you want to be an auror anyway?"

"Well," said Nott, "oddly, I started considering it when Mad-Eye Moody was our professor last year."

Tracey frowned. "You mean the Death-Eater-in-disguise Mad-Eye Moody?"

"Yeah, that's why I said 'oddly'." Nott took a bite of pie before continuing. "But his classes were interesting, and I thought aurors like him were doing the right thing. And then when I found out that Barty Crouch Jr. was actually Mad-Eye Moody, and he had helped bring the Dark Lord back and kill Cedric Diggory, I thought, 'I want to stop people like that'. Diggory was an all right bloke. He didn't deserve what happened to him and his death shouldn't be treated as an accident. The criminal should be held responsible." Nott hesitated. "Except, well, I can hardly apply to be an auror when my dad's a Death Eater. Or, at least, I can't be the kind of auror I want to be."

Tracey had one arm propped up on the table, and her chin rested on the top of her palm. She had a sad little smile as she stared across the table at Nott. "Parents can be fucked up."

I nodded in agreement.

"Truer words have never been spoken," said Blaise.

I held up my water goblet in a mock toast, and Blaise bumped his drink against mine. Nott and Tracey did the same.

"To our future," said Tracey. "May we decide what we're doing with our lives—"

"And not become our parents," said Blaise.

"And not become the evil henchmen everyone assumes we'll be," I added.

We all took long sips of our drinks.


	7. The Quidditch Match Became A Musical

**Chapter Seven: The Quidditch Match Became A Musical**

As October reached its end, the first Quidditch match of the season drew closer. Since the Quidditch season had been cancelled last year due to the Triwizard Tournament taking place, special attention was being paid to the opening match, Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

Tensions between the houses were at a high. Gryffindor and Slytherin students passed insults in the hallways, while Snape and McGonagall not-so-subtly showed favoritism to their house players. Several Slytherins—Montague in particular—had been accused of trying to hex Gryffindor players. I had actually witnessed Miles Bletchley hit Alicia Spinnet with a Hair-Thickening spell from behind, sending Spinnet to the Hospital Wing with abnormally bushy eyebrows. When this incident was brought to Snape's attention, he insisted that Spinnet had tried the charm on herself for some strange reason. Sometimes, I really hated Snape.

Once, on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Pansy caught sight of Potter and sneered, "Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday."

I rolled my eyes, and Tracey tried to drag Pansy away before she scratched someone's eyes out.

Potter gave Pansy a scathing look and said, "Warrington's aim's so pathetic I'd be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me."

The smirk disappeared from Pansy's face, and I found myself impressed (not for the first time) with Potter's sass abilities.

The person I felt the most pity for was Ron Weasley, the new Gryffindor keeper. I overhead Montague ask, "Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?" in the corridor between classes. And instead of giving a clever retort, Weasley just turned green. Draco had also perfected his impersonation of Weasley dropping the Quaffle and would show the act to anyone who would watch. Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent, and Georgina would all laugh loudly whenever Weasley came near them. And if poor Weasley was upset by our house antics now, he had no way to cope with what was in store for him come game day.

"Weasley's going to crumble on Saturday," said Pansy, practically jumping around with excitement.

Tracey sighed. "Our reputation's going to get even worse after this, isn't it?"

"We're just getting into the spirit of the game," said Pansy who didn't care about the Slytherin reputation in the slightest.

I yawned and leaned against the staircase railing. The five of us had a break before Defense Against the Dark Darts class, and rather than return to the Slytherin dungeons or visit the crowded library, we had ended up hanging around the moving staircases.

"So how many people do you think have died on these staircases?" I asked, watching as the stairs above us, which used to lead to the fifth floor, shifted to the sixth floor.

"They don't move while you're on them," said Nott.

I tipped my head back and stared up at the ceiling. The hall was ten stories high with stone staircases connecting the floors. Looking up from the third floor, it looked like a mosaic pattern, the staircases crisscrossing and moving as they pleased.

"I'm sure there are spells to stop people from falling to their deaths," I said. "It'd give Hogwarts a bad rep if they had to report the number of student deaths by staircases every year."

"No one dies from the staircases," said Blaise, a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Maybe they cover it up," I mused.

At this point, Blaise decided to ignore me. He turned to Nott and started a conversation about the muggleborn students who dressed up for Halloween. He'd seen Hufflepuff's Sophie Roper dressed like a fairy and Ravenclaw's Lisa Turpin dressed like some kind of furry animal walking around together.

"Oh, Daphne." Tracey pulled me to the edge of the staircase so I could look down. "It's Number Five."

Several sixth year Hufflepuff boys were hanging out on the second-floor staircase; among them was a blond-haired boy with a charming smile—Jacob Stebbins, Number Five on our Hogwarts' Fittest Boys List.

"Stebbins?" Pansy moved to the handrail to look down with me. "Well, he's not Draco, but even I have to admit those locks of his are _fine_."

I snorted. "Did you really just say 'locks'?"

"He has a girlfriend, doesn't he?" asked Nott. "Fawcett or whatever her name is."

"Yeah," said Tracey. "But Pansy and Daphne have decided that girlfriends play no role in the Top Ten List. Cedric Diggory dated Cho Chang last year, and he was still Number One."

Blaise gave me a knowing look. It was no secret that I had fancied Diggory.

I folded my arms over my chest and said, "Brains don't matter either. Roger Davies is currently Number One, and we all know he has pixie shit for a brain."

"Personality doesn't matter either," said Pansy, "since Cormac McLaggen is Number Four."

Tracey and I exchanged glances. We decided not to mention that Draco, placed at Number Three, was a true example of how much personality didn't matter.

Blaise sighed and moved to lean against the handrail next to me. "If you lot get to make a Top Ten Boys List, do we get to make a Top Ten Girls List?"

Pansy scoffed. "Of course not. That would be the objectification of women, and as a civil society, we are above such matters."

Pansy glanced at me and then at Tracey. Her lips twitched as she tried to hold back a smile at the pure hypocrisy of that statement. Then, all three of us were laughing, while Nott and Blaise resisted the urge to push us off the moving staircase and see if there were really protection charms to stop us from dying.

Our laughter was cut short when a group of the Slytherin Quidditch players started making their way down the staircase. Miles Bletchley and Adrian Pucey were laughing loudly at some joke Cassius Warrington had made, while Graham Montague ran his fingers through his dark hair and threw a smile in Pansy's direction.

Pansy, in true Pansy fashion, pretended to check her hair for split ends as Montague approached her.

"Are you excited for the match Saturday?" he asked.

"Of course," said Pansy, "Draco's playing."

Montague turned pink about the ears. "Yeah, well, hopefully he can catch the Snitch."

"True," I said. "He has a less than stellar track record."

Adrian (Number Nine on the List) grinned at me. I was momentarily stunned by his dimples, but I shook the thought away.

"Draco can handle Potter," Pansy was saying.

"Not without cheating," I muttered under my breath.

Blaise elbowed me in the side.

"You coming to the game, Daphne?" asked Adrian.

"If I don't, Pansy will throw a fit," I said grimly.

"Besides," said Blaise, "Daph has to help with 'Weasley is our King'. Her singing voice is to die for."

"Really?" Adrian glanced at me in surprise.

I glared at Blaise. He and I both knew I couldn't carry a tune to save my life. None of my family could. During birthday celebrations, Astoria and I have to cover our ears so we don't hear our mother's squeaky, off-key voice.

"I heard Alicia Spinnet got let out of the Hospital Wing," said Nott in a low voice.

If Nott had been glaring at me like that, I'd have been running in the opposite direction as fast as my short legs could carry me, but Miles Bletchley just shrugged and said, "Stupid girl practiced a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself."

My eyes narrowed. Our Quidditch team was doing nothing to endear Slytherin to the other houses.

Miles looked Nott up and down as Nott glared back at him. No one with a brain would openly pick a fight with Nott; his dad was deep in the Dark Lord's circle after all. Instead, Miles glanced at Tracey at smirked. He didn't have to say anything for us to know what sort of rude comment he was thinking. It was common knowledge among Slytherins that Tracey's mom was muggleborn ever since third year when Georgina Runcorn had publicly told Tracey that she might as well be a muggle. While our group of friends didn't mind, some Slytherins said cruel things to Tracey and treated her as if she had the plague.

"Good luck tomorrow," I said loudly, cutting across any remark Miles might make. "Break a wand or whatever the saying is."

"Thanks," said Adrian. "I'll see you in the stands."

Montague smiled at Pansy before leading his friends away. Blaise, Nott, and I watched them go, glaring at their backs.

"Miles is a prick," I said.

Nott nodded in agreement.

"They all are," said Tracey, folding her arms over her chest.

"Adrian's not bad," I pointed out.

"He hangs out with them though," said Tracey. "No decent human being would voluntarily spend time with Miles Bletchley."

Well, I couldn't argue with that. Still, Tracey's words wouldn't stop me from thinking Adrian Pucey was fit and someone I wouldn't mind being friends with.

* * *

The first Saturday of November brought with it the cold. We grabbed our fur coats, gloves, and scarves before making our way up to the Great Hall for the pre-Quidditch breakfast. Before we left the common room, Pansy made sure we all had our silver badges, which read "Weasley is our King" in flashing letters. She had spent the last couple days making sure that everyone in the house knew about "Weasley is our King"; there was no way she was going to let her closest friends go without participating.

As we entered the green, silver, red, and gold Great Hall, I glared down at the obnoxious, crown-shaped badge on my chest. Maybe I could take it off when Pansy's back was turned…

"Don't even think about it," said Pansy when I moved to unhook the pin. "Don't forget, I'm a prefect and I have the power to put you in detention."

Glaring at her, I lowered my hands and let the badge stay in place. Blaise and Nott sat on either side of me at the Slytherin table while Tracey sat across. Pansy was still trying to organize all the underclassmen and didn't have time for breakfast.

"Her loss," said Tracey, buttering herself a piece of toast when Pansy wasn't looking.

"If only she could put this energy into more productive and positive things," I said with a sigh. "She could probably reform the entire wizarding world."

"Instead," said Tracey, "she's determined to chase after Draco Malfoy."

I shook my head. "Such a shame."

"Weasley looks rather pale," said Nott, glancing over at the red-haired, freckled boy sitting at the Gryffindor table. "I don't think he's noticed the badges yet though."

"If he's pale now," I said, "he's going to faint when he hears the song."

We heard a squeal behind us and turned to see Pansy clinging to Draco's arm. It looked as if she was bragging about the badges she'd made, but it was hard to be sure. Draco smiled at her and said something in his usual arrogant manner. Pansy released his arm and gave him an adoring smile before Draco followed the rest of his teammates out of the Great Hall. The Gryffindor Quidditch team departed not long after.

"I guess Weasley didn't see," said Pansy, gloomily taking a seat next to Tracey.

"He will," I muttered.

"But will it affect him?" asked Pansy. "Do you think he'll cry?"

"Your viciousness impresses me," said Blaise.

Pansy tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and said, "It's called tactics. You should try learning it some time."

"Blaise knows tactics," I said, stealing a piece of bacon from Blaise's plate. "His tactic is to pretend he's better than everyone else."

"I don't have to pretend." Blaise snatched the bacon out of my hands before I could take a bite.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"Don't forget your diet," said Blaise.

Pansy, who had been too preoccupied with her tea, looked up and spotted the piece of bacon. "Daphne! It's one thing to eat carbs, but greasy, fattening bacon is definite no. Do you want to get fat?"

"I'm a perfectly healthy weight," I muttered as Tracey hid her buttered toast under the table.

I shot Blaise a murderous glare. He grinned, and when Pansy's back was turned, he gave me two pieces of bacon.

After breakfast, we made our way down the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the student body. The grass was tipped with morning frost, and a bitter wind swept across the grounds. I wrapped my fur cloak around me and buried my nose in my green and silver scarf. Tracey and Nott walked on their side of me, their cheeks bright red. Blaise had forgotten his scarf, but he was too proud to admit that he was cold, so he battled the wind in silence.

"I hope Draco dresses warmly enough," said Pansy, fiddling with her rolled up "Weasley is our King" banner.

"I honestly don't care," I said.

Nott nodded in agreement.

The stands were packed, as they usually were for the first Quidditch match of the season. Gryffindor supporters sat on the far side of the pitch and Slytherin supporters sat in the stands nearest to the castle. Most Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students and chosen to sit in the Gryffindor section. I spotted Stephen and Sue sitting in the front row of the Slytherin stands, however, and I made my way down the steps to talk to them.

"You chose us over those Gryffindors?" I asked, clutching a hand to my chest. "I'm touched."

"Of course," said Stephen, "I'd never cheer for those Gryffin-bores."

He laughed, while Sue and I stared at him in disgust. His jokes still hadn't improved from when we were eleven.

"Daphne!" cried Pansy, storming down the steps and grabbing me roughly by the arm. "You're sitting with us today."

Sue gave Pansy a strained smile. "Hello."

"Hi," said Pansy. She glanced at Sue and Stephen's fur robes and asked, "Where's your 'Weasley is our King' badges?"

"Oh," said Sue, glancing around the stands. "Is that what those things say?"

"It's a cheering tactic," I said. "We're being strategic fans."

Pansy pretended not to hear the sarcasm in my voice as she handed Sue and Stephen crown-shaped badges. She spotted some Slytherin fourth-years and shouted, "You there! I'm a prefect!"

The fourth year boys scurried over at Pansy's command. One of them blushed when he made direct eye contact with Pansy. I fought back a sigh; Pansy was too pretty for her own good.

"Teach these two the song," said Pansy, pointing at Sue and Stephen.

The boys nodded mutely.

Pansy smiled at Sue and Stephen. "I would love to chat, but I need to take Daphne away. If I let her out of my sight for too long, she's going to take off the badge."

I pulled a face and waved goodbye to my friends as Pansy dragged me along the bleachers to where Tracey, Blaise, Nott, Millicent, and Georgina were figuring out how to set up the "Weasley is our King" banner. Well, I should say that Georgina and Tracey were figuring out how to put up the banner. Blaise was sitting down on the bleachers, occasionally calling out advice for the two girls, and Millicent was trying to strike up a conversation with Nott, who was determinedly ignoring her by pretending to adjust his silver badge.

"No!" cried Pansy, sprinting up the steps to where Tracey and Georgina were wrapped up in the cotton banner. "Don't you know how to do a Sticking Charm? Can't you do anything without me?"

I moved along the seats to sit down next to Blaise. "You ready for this?"

Blaise gave me a scathing look.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

"Why does Millicent insist on talking to me?" asked Nott, who had finally managed to escape when Pansy called Millicent over to help with the banner.

"She thinks you're 'dark and mysterious'," I explained.

"I'm really not," said Nott.

I grinned. "All the brooding you do gives girls the wrong impression. They think you're 'cool'."

"This is what you get for preferring to read by yourself rather than coming to Hogsmeade with us," said Blaise.

"That happened one time," grumbled Nott.

"Three times," said Blaise. "And one of those times, Pansy made me stalk Draco with her."

Nott shrugged. "You could have stayed in the common room too."

"Here they are!" squealed Pansy, sprinting down the bleachers to sit beside Nott.

Sure enough, down on the pitch, seven players dressed in green robes stepped out of the Slytherin locker room onto the grass. On the other side of the field, seven scarlet-clad players did the same. I glanced over my shoulder to see the flickering green and silver banner. At the moment, the colors were a faded shade of green, so that only people close by could read the words "Weasley is our King". The moment the Quaffle went near Ron Weasley, however, the words would be flashing silver and the Slytherin stands would burst into song.

"Weasley looks like he's about to be sick," said Tracey. She had Pansy's omnioculars held up to her eyes as she surveyed the pitch.

Johnson and Montague shook hands and then stepped back into formation. On Madam Hooch's order, the two teams mounted their brooms and kicked off from the ground. Tracey handed back Pansy's onmioculars as the fourteen players raced around the pitch.

Lee Jordan's voice filled the stadium as he started his commentary of the game. "And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me—"

"Jordan!" yelled McGonagall.

"I love Jordan's commentary," said Tracey with a laugh.

"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest—and she's ducked Warrington, she's passed Montague, she's—ouch—been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe…"

"They should get someone else to commentate the Gryffindor games though," I said. "Jordan's biased."

"But that's what makes it funny," said Tracey. "Don't you want to listen to him insult Draco?"

Well, I couldn't argue with that. It was also fun to hear Draco complain about Jordan's commentary after the match.

Jordan's voice filled the stadium, interrupting my thoughts. "Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch—"

As Montague approached the three golden hoops at the Gryffindor end of the pitch, Pansy jumped to her feet and cried, "Weasley cannot save a thing!"

Millicent, Georgina, and Tracey took up the chant immediately. "He cannot block a single ring."

The third year girls in front of us joined in along with the seventh years to our right. "That's why the Slytherins all sing: Weasley is our King!"

"Nice Bludger there from George Weasley," cried Lee Jordan, not noticing as the song spread through the Slytherin section of the stands. "That's a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet's away—"

"Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King"

The off-key singing of the Slytherin fans filled my ears so that I could barely hear Lee Jordan's commentary.

"—dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger—close call, Alicia—and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?" He paused to listen.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King.

Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley will make sure we win,

Weasley is our King."

"—and Alicia passes back to Angelina!" yelled Jordan, trying to drown out our song. "Come on now, Angelina—looks like she's got just the Keeper to beat—she shoots—she—"

As much as I disliked Miles Bletchley, he was an excellent Keeper. He blocked Johnson's shot no problem and tossed the Quaffle to Cassius Warrington. Cassius darted between Gryffinor's two other chasers, Spinnet and Bell, towards the three goalposts on the other end of the field. The noise around me increased in volume.

"Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King"

"Daphne!" cried Pansy, grabbing me by the wrist. "You're not singing!"

"—and it's Warrington with the Quaffle," cried Jordan. "Warrington heading for goal, he's out of Bludger range with just the keeper ahead—"

I kept my mouth shut as Pansy screamed into my ear, "Weasley cannot save a thing!"

"—so it's the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team—come on, Ron!"

Cassius hurled the Quaffle into the central hoop and a great roar rose up around me. I managed some weak applause. A part of me still felt guilty about the song; this was Weasley's first game after all.

The score was now ten-nil with Gryffindor's Katie Bell taking the Quaffle up the pitch. Jordan was having trouble commentating over the roar of the Slytherin stands' song. I couldn't even hear him anymore. Montague had managed to get ahold of the Quaffle and was racing up pitch towards the Gryfindor goalposts. In her excitement, Pansy raced down to the front of the stands and started conducting the Slytherin fans in the song. Montague passed to Adrian, who feinted to the left and then tossed the Quaffle into the right hoop.

The Slytherin fans screamed in excitement. Millicent almost broke my eardrums.

"Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King"

Alicia Spinnet had the Quaffle but dropped it when she was shouldered in the jaw by Cassius Warrington. Montague caught the Quaffle and raced towards the Gryffindor goalposts.

"That's dirty cheating!" cried Jordan into his microphone. "Should've expected nothing less from a Slytherin!"

"Jordan," snapped McGonagall, her voice sharp with warning.

As Montague neared Ron Weasley and the Gryffindor goalposts, I felt a wave of anger in my chest. _Should've expecting nothing less from a Slytherin_. What did Lee Jordan know about Slytherin house? Just because the Dark Lord was a Slytherin didn't mean we were all horrible people. Just because some Slytherins were pureblood elitists, didn't mean we all were. Just because Cassius played Quidditch rough, didn't mean all Slytherin cheated in sports. But did Lee Jordan care about that? No. All Slytherins were evil in his eyes, and therefore he had the right to say whatever he wanted during a Quidditch match.

The words of the song surrounded me, rising higher and higher as Montague drew back his arm and threw the Quaffle. Weasley dove, but the Quaffle soared through his open arms through the center goalpost.

A great cheer rose from the Slytherin stands, and I found myself cheering with them.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King."

If Lee Jordan wanted me to be a bully, then I could be a bully. Maybe Ron Weasley didn't deserve to be the focus of our song, but we didn't deserve to be judged by our house.

Goyle hit a Bludger at Katie Bell, causing her to drop the Quaffle. Both Johnson and Adrian went for the ball, but Adrian got there first. He did a reverse pass to Montague, who sped down field. Fred/George Weasley sent a Bludger at Montague, but he passed the Quaffle to Cassius before dodging the wild ball. Cassius passed to Adrian, who tossed the ball into the far right hoop. Forty-nil.

"Weasley is our King!" screamed Tracey.

"Nice one, Adrian!" I shouted, waving my arms over my head.

Blaise gave me an odd look. He seemed as though he wanted to say something to me, but there was no way to be heard over the green and silver crowd.

Johnson finally got the Quaffle past Miles, making the score forty-ten.

"—Pucey throws to Warrington," cried Jordan. "Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey—Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good—I mean bad—Bell's hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it's Pucey in possession again…"

"If you can't be impartial, don't commentate," I muttered.

No one heard me as the crowd let out a great cry. Potter was darting towards the ground with Draco on the tail of his broom.

"Come on, Draco!" screamed Pansy.

"It'd be embarrassing if we lost after all this," said Blaise.

The Snitch shifted positions, so that Draco had the better position. Potter wrenched his broom around so that he was neck and neck with Draco.

A hush had fallen over the Slytherin crowd. We all watched, breathless, as Draco and Potter reached for the Snitch.

Potter's hand closed around the golden ball.

"I knew it," said Tracey. "Draco's never beaten Potter."

"No!" cried Pansy. "No! He cheated! Potter cheated!"

"He didn't cheat," said Blaise. "Potter's just the better seeker."

Tracey let out little squeak, and I turned to the pitch in time to see a Bludger slam into Potter's back. Potter flew forward off his broom. However, he was only a couple meters off the ground, and he landed safely on the frostbitten grass.

As Madam Hooch's shrill whistle filled the stadium, I saw Crabbe flying in circle above Potter, bat resting on his shoulder and an ugly grimace on his face. The Gryffindor section was shouting and jeering, while many of the Slytherins were booing Potter's catch.

Draco landed on the pitch not far from Potter. I think Draco was saying something, but from the bleachers I had no idea what.

The rest of the Gryffindor team landed beside Potter to congratulate him. But Draco—_stupid_ Draco—just kept talking.

"What's he saying?" asked Tracey nervously.

"Probably insulting Potter," said Blaise. "Or Weasley. Or Gryffindor."

I saw Fred and George Weasley tense and said, "I think Weasley."

Potter grabbed hold of George Weasley, while the three Gryffindor chasers held back Fred. Madam Hooch was too busy scolding Crabbe about the Bludger attack to notice what was happening between the boys.

"Is Draco stupid?" asked Tracey. "Sure, we lost, but Gryffindor won fairly."

"I hope the Weasleys punch him in the face," I muttered.

All of a sudden, Potter had released George Weasley and the two of them were sprinting at Draco. There were no wands. Potter drew back his fist and whacked Draco in the stomach.

"Well," I said, "it's not the face, but that'll do."

"Draco!" screamed Pansy. "That bastard Potter!"

"Aim for the face, Potter!" I cried.

Thankfully, Pansy couldn't hear me over the roar of the stands; otherwise, she might have tried to hit _me_ in the face.

Madam Hooch had finally seen what was going on. With a wave of her wand, she separated the boys. Draco was lying on the ground, blood dripping from his nose, while George was holding a hand to his lip. Potter was gasping for breath, his face contorted with rage.

After the boys had been sent off the pitch, and undoubtedly to the Headmaster's Office, the stands erupted into conversation. The Slytherin stands seemed to be of two minds. Half of the students supported Draco, calling Potter a cheater and the Weasley twins violent. The other half seemed to think Draco was an obnoxious twat and wished that Potter and George Weasley had landed a few more punches.

"Draco," cried Pansy, her face stark white. "He was bleeding. Did you see the blood? Do you think he'll be all right?"

"He'll be fine," said Tracey, wrapping her arms around Pansy in a tight hug. "Madam Pomfrey can fix him in an instant."

"Besides," I said, "a few good punches will do him good. It builds character."

Tracey glared at me over Pansy's head. "Not helping," she mouthed at me.

"Daphne." Blaise lightly held my forearm and steered me down the steps towards the exit. Nott followed, leaving Tracey, Georgina, and Millicent to do the consoling.

"Sorry," I said as we joined the crowds leaving the stadium.

"Comforting isn't your thing," said Blaise.

There was no arguing with that.

Blaise glanced down at me and then asked, "So why did you start singing?"

I fought back a sigh. I should've known Blaise was going to ask me that. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Nott was deliberately looking away from us, trying not to eavesdrop. I honestly didn't care if Nott overheard. The only time Blaise and I were ever secretive was when we were discussing our parents.

"Lee Jordan pissed me off," I said.

"Ah." Blaise nodded. "The Slytherin stereotype."

"Not all Slytherins are cheaters," I complained. "Just like not all Hufflepuffs are honest or all Ravenclaws wise. Don't lump us all together like that."

"So to prove him wrong," said Blaise, "you perpetuated the Slytherin stereotype by singing 'Weasley is our King'."

I opened my mouth to argue, to explain that the song was a strategic move, but then I said nothing. Blaise was right, of course. I'd been immature and stupid, and as much as I liked to joke about being a future Death Eater and upholding the Slytherin reputation with my friends, I hated being lumped into the Slytherin stereotype by the other houses.

We stepped out from the stadium onto the dirt path leading up to the castle. Rather than head back, we decided to wait for Tracey and Pansy. As the chilly air nipped our exposed skin, Blaise, Nott, and I leaned against the wooden wall of the Quidditch stadium and watched as the other students passed. A few of the Gryffindor students shouted insults at us, but the comments stopped when Nott drew his wand and carefully twirled the slender pine between his fingers. All it took was a calm, quiet look from Nott, and the comments died in their throats.

"Nott," I said, "sometimes you can be such a badass."

Nott shrugged. "It helps when your father's an alleged Death Eater."

"It goes with your dark and mysterious image," said Blaise. "No wonder Millicent fancies you."

I laughed and tilted my head to the side so that it rested on Blaise's shoulder.

Blaise glanced down at me, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

"I'm tired," I said. "I should've stayed in bed rather than go to this stupid Quidditch game."

"We all should've," said Nott.

"That reminds me." Blaise held out his hand in front of me. "You told Potter to aim for Draco's face."

Sighing, I rummaged through the pocket of my fur cloak and found the sickle I'd started carrying around with me. I dropped the coin into Blaise's hand and muttered, "It was worth it."


	8. No News Is Good News

**Chapter Eight: No News is Good News**

With the power invested in her by Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five, High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge gave Harry Potter, George Weasley, and Fred Weasley lifelong bans from playing Quidditch. Draco, of course, received no punishment in the slightest.

When I walked into the Charms classroom Tuesday afternoon, I was greeted by Hannah's glare.

"Good day to you too," I muttered, sliding into the seat next to her.

"'Weasley is our King'?" whispered Hannah. "That's too mean. Especially for Ron's first match."

"Pansy's idea, not mine."

Hannah opened her mouth, probably about to say, "Of course, it was Pansy," but she thought better of it. Instead, she leaned back in her seat and sighed. "I like you, but sometimes the other people in your house can be terrible."

I'd been present at its creation and I'd sung a few verses at the match, but everyone in my house knew I wasn't the biggest fan of "Weasley is our King". However, even if I agreed with Hannah, I still scowled at the insult to the other Slytherins.

"You're one to talk," I muttered, "Macmillan once called me a Future Death Eater, and I know Megan Jones thinks I'm 'the slut of Slytherin'."

Hannah paled. "How did you—"

"Tracey's friends with Tamsin Applebee," I said. "You'd be surprised how much I know about what's said in your common room."

"Tamsin?" repeated Hannah blankly. "Really?"

"They're both fans of the Falmouth Falcons," I said. "They go to games together over the summer."

Hannah was still processing this new information. "Well, Megan only called you a you-know-what once, and that was back in third year when she fancied Blaise Zabini."

I choked on air. "What? Jones fancied Blaise?"

"He _is_ rather good-looking," said Hannah. She caught sight of my repulsed expression and added, "Not my type though."

"You're not comparing Blaise to Longbottom, are you?" I asked suspiciously.

"There's nothing to compare," said Hannah. "They're two very different types of people."

"You can say that again," I muttered. "So, uh, does Jones still fancy Blaise?"

Hannah hid a smile behind her left hand.

"Just wondering," I said quickly before Hannah could get any funny ideas.

"She fancied him most of third year and part of fourth," said Hannah with a knowing look in my direction. "When she saw that you went to the Yule Ball together, she figured you were dating and gave up."

"Don't give me that look," I said, pointing at Hannah. "Blaise and I went together so we wouldn't be stag. There was about as much romance between Blaise and me as there was between Tracey and Nott—they danced together once before Tracey met some Durmstrang girl and ignored Nott the rest of the night."

Hannah rolled her eyes. "You always tell me to ask Neville to Hogsmeade. Why don't I get to pry in your love life too?"

"Because my love life is non-existent."

Hannah tactfully decided not to mention my unrequited love for Cedric Diggory. Instead, she said, "You'll tell me first when you fancy someone, won't you?" There was another glance in Blaise's direction.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered.

Our conversation came to an end as Flitwick began class. I half-heartedly listened as he explained the theory behind the Stunning Spell. Instead, I stared across the room at Megan Jones, a square-faced girl who still wore her hair in pigtails despite being fifteen-years-old.

I couldn't picture her liking Blaise. They were too different. Jones was a muggleborn girl who thought pigtails looked good, while Blaise was the heir to the Zabini fortune. Malfoy, Nott, Greengrass, and Parkinson were all wealthy, pureblooded families (part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight as written in Cantankerus Nott's _Pure Blood Directory_) but over the years, through her various marriages, Ms. Zabini had amassed a fortune that far surpassed any of the pureblood families. In terms of his upbringing, Blaise was from another world. One that the rest of us couldn't even imagine.

Class ended without me setting anything on fire (which was a vast improvement on my part). I said goodbye to Hannah as she headed off to Care of Magical Creatures and then waited in the corridor for Blaise to come out of the classroom so we could walk to Arithmancy together.

"So have you fallen in love with me or what?" asked Blaise as he stepped through the doorway.

I squinted up at him, trying to decide if he was joking or not. "Uh, what?"

"You were staring at me during Flitwick's lecture."

"Oh, that." I shrugged. "Did you know Megan Jones used to fancy you?"

Blaise blinked. "Megan Jones? Really?"

"Yeah, third and fourth year. Apparently, she called me 'the slut of Slytherin' because she thought I fancied you too." I laughed at the thought.

"Megan Jones?" repeated Blaise blankly. "How am I her type?"

"It's the bad boy appeal," I said. "I suppose you're like Nott with your 'dark and mysterious' side."

Blaise scowled. "How am I 'dark and mysterious'?"

"You're right," I said. "That's more Nott's charm. I guess you're the classy bad boy type."

"That's a type?" asked Blaise incredulously.

"Some girls like it."

Blaise glanced down at me. "So what's your type then?"

I laughed aloud and elbowed Blaise in the side. "Are we really having this conversation?"

"You brought it up," said Blaise, pushing my elbow away before I could attack a second time.

"I was just talking about Megan Jones' type," I said. "That doesn't mean mine."

"Are you embarrassed to admit it?" asked Blaise, a devilish grin appearing on his handsome face. "Is 'classy bad boy' actually your type? I hate to say it, Daph, but you're not mine. I like—"

I stepped on his left foot, causing Blaise to hiss in pain. I moved back and, with arms folded over my chest, said, "It isn't. I like nice boys—like Cedric Diggory."

Not waiting for a response, I continued down the corridor towards the Arithmancy classroom. Blaise followed, pretending that the foot I stepped on didn't hurt in the slightest. I rolled my eyes and waited for him to catch up.

"Sorry," I said.

Blaise shrugged. "I've been through worse."

"Oh yeah." I nodded. "Remember second year when Tracey accidentally kneed you in the—"

"Don't remind me."

* * *

The rest of the day passed without incident. The subject of types never came up again—something for which I was very thankful. However, our group was plagued with a new topic of interest when, the next evening, Pansy came to dinner with big news. A smug, knowing grin was plastered across her face as she sat in the seat next to me. I quickly pushed the chips from my plate onto Blaise's, but Pansy was too excited to notice that I was breaking the rules of our diet.

"What's got you so excited?" asked Blaise before taking a bite of his newly acquired chips.

"You'll never guess who Nott and I just saw," said Pansy.

Nott hadn't arrived at the Great Hall yet, otherwise I would have just asked him. Instead, I had to grit my teeth, throw away my pride, and ask Pansy, "Who?"

"You have to guess," said Pansy as she loaded her dinner plate up with fruits and vegetables. "Otherwise it's no fun."

Blaise and I exchanged frustrated glances, while Tracey said, "I really don't have a clue."

"Then I'm not telling you anything," said Pansy.

I sighed. "Was it Draco?"

"No," said Pansy with a dreamy look down the table at where Draco was sitting with Crabbe and Goyle.

"Dumbledore?" said Tracey.

Pansy scrunched her face. "Why would I care about that?"

At that moment, Nott appeared, making his way down the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables to take the open seat next to Tracey.

"Thank Merlin, you're here," I said.

"Where have you been?" asked Blaise.

Nott glanced between the two of us, confused. "Finishing off my Astronomy essay."

"Who did you and Pansy see—?" Tracey started to ask before Pansy interrupted her.

"Fine," said Pansy, leaning back in her seat. "You lot are no fun."

Nott looked at the four of us with faint confusion. Then, he shrugged and starting filling his plate with food.

"Hagrid," said Pansy. Nott paused in dishing up haggis and understanding dawned on his face. However, he let Pansy explain. "We were walking back to the castle after Care of Magical Creatures, and we saw the big oaf coming out of his hut."

"But he wasn't teaching Care of Magical Creatures today," said Tracey.

"You should have seen Hagrid's face," said Pansy. "He was covered with cuts and bruises. He looked as though one of his hippogriff's had trampled all over his face. It was nasty."

Nott nodded.

"Well," said Blaise, "if he was talking to the giants in Belarus like Nott said, then no wonder his face looks like that."

"I take it negotiations didn't go well," I muttered.

"I just hope You-Know-Who's negotiations didn't go well either," said Tracey.

There was a moment of silence as we all imagined the Death Eaters fighting alongside giants. A shiver ran down my spine, and I quickly helped myself to some roasted vegetables so that no one would notice.

"Why hasn't Hagrid gone back to teaching Care of Magical Creatures?" asked Tracey, drumming her fingers of the edge of the table.

"His face, I suppose," said Nott. "He and Dumbledore probably don't want students to see his face and wonder what he's been up to."

"Well, Pansy and you saw his face anyways," I pointed out. "So doesn't that defeat the purpose?"

"But Pansy has a talent for finding out things she's not supposed to," said Tracey. "She's an exception."

Pansy was beaming as if she'd just been given the greatest compliment in the world.

I looked up at the teacher's table where Professor Grubbly-Plank sat beside Madam Hooch. The two of them were talking vehemently about something, while Professor Flitwick listened in curiously. How long would Grubbly-Plank continue to teach Care of Magical Creatures? Had she known where Hagrid was when she accepted the post? What about Potter and his friends? Did they know about Hagrid, where he'd been and what he'd been doing?

I couldn't ask my friends what they thought without having to pay the fine, so I kept my mouth glued shut. Instead, I glanced across the hall where the Golden Trio were sitting with a bunch of other Gryffindors—many of whom I recognized from that day outside the Hog's Head. Even though I wasn't certain about what their little group was doing, I silently wished them luck. I may not like Potter, but even I could support someone who was defying Umbridge.

"I hate that woman," I muttered.

"Who?" asked Tracey, surprised. "Grubbly-Plank?"

"I've never met Grubbly-Plank. Why would I hate her?" I shook my head. "I meant Umbridge."

Nott nodded, and Tracey stabbed a roasted pepper on her plate rather violently. "Who doesn't hate her?" she asked.

"Fudge," said Blaise grimly.

"Who voted Fudge into office?" I asked. "I think we should have a revolution and replace him—"

"What are you talking about now?" An all too familiar voice came from behind me.

I leaned back in my seat and looked up to see my younger, prettier sister standing over me. There had been a faint teasing to her tone, but now that I saw her, I realized that her expression was dead serious.

"What is it?" I asked, turning around on the bench so that I could face Astoria properly.

Astoria glanced around the table at my friends. "Can I talk to you?"

While no secrets existed between Blaise and me, there were some things I'd rather Pansy didn't know about. I loved the girl, but she had a bad habit of telling Draco everything.

"You want to head back to the common room?" I asked, getting to my feet.

Astoria nodded.

"Later," murmured Blaise.

"Don't forget about our Herbology essay," said Tracey, while Pansy nodded in agreement.

Nott said nothing but managed a warm smile for me.

Astoria led the way out of the Great Hall, and I followed closely behind, weaving my way through the crowds of people who had inconsiderately decided to form clusters in front of the exit. One Ravenclaw boy gave me a murderous glare as I pushed past him. I muttered, "The Dark Lord," under my breath, which caused the boy to turn quickly away from me. I regretted it a moment later, but sometimes, it was all too easy and all too entertaining to abuse my Slytherin reputation.

When we were alone in the hallway, heading towards the Slytherin dungeons, I finally spoke, "So how have you been?"

"Fine."

"How are classes?"

Astoria shrugged. "I'm surviving."

"What's this I hear about you and Roy Fawley?"

Astoria's eyes widened, and she turned to stare at me. A smug smile made its way onto my face. She hadn't expected me to know that.

"You really underestimate Tracey and Pansy's gossip skills," I said.

"There's nothing," said Astoria. "He asked me to go with him to our next Hogsmeade visit. I said 'no'."

"Why?"

"He's a prat."

"Fair enough." Roy Fawley was two years younger than I was, so I didn't know anything about him other than his name, that he liked dueling, and that he had a thing for my sister. I smirked at Astoria and asked, "Are you still waiting for Roger Davies to realize you exist?"

Astoria cheeks turned bright red, but she kept her head high and her eyes directed forward. "I just think Roger Davies is cute. That's all."

"He's fit," I said. "Number One on our Hogwart's Most Fit List."

"How's Adrian Pucey?" she asked abruptly.

I blinked. "What would I know about Adrian Pucey? He seems like a nice bloke."

"You mean Tracey and Pansy don't know?" Astoria let out a little fake gasp. "Well, I'm honored to know some bit of gossip before them." She paused and then added, "Or maybe they just haven't shared the rumors with you yet."

I scowled. There was nothing I hated more than being kept out of the loop. "What are you talking about?"

A wide grin spread across Astoria's face. "You'll find out, sis."

"Really?" I snapped. "You're not going to tell me? You're just going to dangle this information in front of me and then take it away. What kind of pixie shit is this?"

Astoria shrugged, a sweet little smile on her face.

When we reached the stone wall that marked the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons, the smile faded from Astoria's face, and she stared blankly at the wall.

"What's wrong?" I asked. I glanced up and down the hallway, wondering if Astoria had seen something upsetting. But the hallway was the same as usual, the same flickering torches, the same red and gray patterned carpet, the same dark stone walls, and the same arched ceiling.

After a minute of lip biting and hesitation, Astoria reached into the pocket of her black robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She handed it to me, and I opened the parchment to see a letter, addressed to both Astoria and me, in our father's messy scrawl. He wrote that he would be back home for Christmas, and he hoped we could come and stay with him before he went on another business trip to Hong Kong.

Carefully, I folded the letter again and handed it back to Astoria. "Dad's coming back from India."

"Seems so," said Astoria. She placed the letter back in her pocket. "What do you want to do?"

"We haven't seen Dad in sixteen months. But Mum will be hysteric if we don't stay with her over winter break."

Astoria nodded. "She wants to introduce us to her new boyfriend."

"The reporter?" I asked.

"The lawyer," corrected Astoria.

"Right. I forgot." I turned to stone wall and said, "Dragon's heartstring."

With a rough, grating noise, the wall moved back and to the side, revealing the passageway to the Slytherin common room. I went in first and Astoria followed. I went straight to the black leather couch by the fire and collapsed, dropping my book-bag on the floor. Astoria stood over me, her arms folded across her chest.

"Daph," she asked, "what do you think?"

"You know me," I said, staring into the depths of the unlit fireplace. "I'll pick to stay with Dad every time."

Astoria pursed her lips. She knew that, just as I knew that she'd rather stay with Mum. Astoria had never quite managed to forgive our Dad for caring more about his job than his family. The Department of Mysteries had a way of consuming people; there were too many things the employees couldn't tell their families. Eventually the secrets just built and built until the families couldn't stand it anymore. Our mum had given up on our dad, and our dad had given up on us. When I was nine and Astoria was seven, our parents had signed the divorce papers, and our dad had disapperated to Nigeria to do some work for the Department of Mysteries.

"We should see Dad," I said. "Who knows when he's going to come back from Hong Kong."

Astoria nodded stiffly. For once, she didn't argue with me. "I'll write the letters to Mum and Dad."

I stared up at my sister. There was a little red around her blue eyes; a look that only appeared when we talked about our dad. I hesitated and then asked, "You sure you don't want me to write one?"

"I'm fine," said Astoria. She sniffed. "Knowing you, you'll forget about it until we're on the Hogwarts Express."

I couldn't argue with that. There was a reason our parents sent their letters to Astoria instead of me. I had a tendency to misplace their letters before even opening them. Still, I felt like there was something more I could do for my sister. She shouldn't always have to be the responsible one.

With a short good-bye, Astoria headed to the girls' dormitory, leaving me alone on the couch. There was a handful of other Slytherins in the common room; most students were still having dinner in the Great Hall. A cluster of fourth year boys were huddled over one of the mahogany tables, watching a wizard's chess match, and a couple seventh year girls were whispering about something in the far corner. None of them cared what I was up to.

I tilted my head back and stared up at one of the tapestries on the wall. The grim face of Merlin stared back at me.

I hadn't always preferred my dad to my mum. Just like Astoria, I'd been angry with our dad for leaving. For the first year after the divorce, I'd refused to talk about him. He'd written letters to us—letters from Nigeria, Mexico, South Africa, Russia—and we'd thrown them all away without reading them.

But then, my mum had started to bring home the boyfriends. Alfred Selwyn was the first one. I'd woken up one morning to find him in our kitchen. He hadn't even smiled or said "hello" when he saw me. He'd just glared at me with those unfathomable black eyes. I'd ran back up the stairs to my bedroom and hid under the covers. Alfred Selwyn didn't last more than a couple weeks before he'd been replaced by Evan Proudfoot. One night, after she'd had too much vodka, my mother told me that she liked Evan Proudfoot because he was an auror and a bit of a bad boy. Evan the Auror had lasted a whole seven months before he was replaced. I don't remember by who.

I closed my eyes and leaned back into the leather couch.

By the fourth boyfriend, I had begun to read and respond to dad's letters. I'd realized that the one who'd betrayed me wasn't the father who traveled to foreign countries, but the mother who only remembered my existence when her boyfriends were busy and there was no alcohol in the house.

Astoria, on the other hand, still saw Mum as a victim: Mum had been abandoned by Dad just like us; no wonder she drowned herself in gin and tonics.

I'd never had the heart to correct Astoria, to tell her the gin and tonics had started well before the divorce.

"Daph."

My eyes were closed, but I still knew to whom that deep voice belonged. I reached out a hand, and when Blaise took it, I pulled him down onto the couch next to me. I rested my head on his shoulder and glanced around the common room. Tracey, Nott, and Pansy were standing in front of the fireplace, watching me curiously.

"We were going to see if you wanted to do our Herbology homework in the library," said Tracey slowly.

"What did Astoria want?" asked Pansy.

Pansy's voice was gentle, something I rarely heard. Tracey took a seat in the armchair next to me, while Nott remained standing, his dark eyes filled with quiet concern.

"Dad's going to be in London for winter break," I said.

"Oh." Pansy settled onto the couch across from me. "You want to stay with your dad."

It wasn't a question. They had all been there when I'd had to make this same choice in my third year. They'd been there when Astoria and I had gone three weeks without talking because I wanted to stay with Dad and she wanted to stay with Mum. Nott and Tracey had been the ones who had finally convinced Astoria that we needed to see our dad.

"Astoria didn't argue this time," I said.

Silence settled over us. Pansy had a grim expression on her face, and Nott was still looking at me thoughtfully. Blaise sat completely still, acting as the perfect pillow for my head.

"Do you want some pastries?" asked Tracey abruptly. "I can steal some from the kitchens."

"I'm good," I said.

"You know we're here for you if you want to talk," said Pansy.

I smiled. "I know."

"It's good that you get to see your dad again, though," said Tracey. "I always think you're incredible. I don't think I could last that long without seeing one of my parents."

"He writes a lot," I said.

"Is he bringing you a souvenir from India?" asked Pansy.

"He usually does."

Tracey rolled her eyes. "I've visited your mum's house. You have so many souvenirs. Astoria too. Did he get you something from everywhere he's been?"

I nodded.

"My parents never buy me anything," whined Pansy. "They love going on vacations while I'm at school. They went to Paris two weeks ago, and they're going to the Alps this month."

"They don't ever take you on vacation?" asked Tracey.

"Who would want to go on vacation with just their parents?" scoffed Nott.

"Exactly," said Pansy. "I would just impose on their shag time." She shuddered. "I don't want that to happen again."

Tracey gasped. "You've seen your parents shagging?"

"Unfortunately," said Pansy.

Blaise nodded. "I have too. I wish I could hex it from my memory."

I let their voices fade to the background, my head still resting on Blaise's shoulder. There had been many nights like this over the past four years, and I took comfort in the familiarity. No matter what, my friends would be there for me. Even when my dad was on the other side of the world and my mum was preoccupied with her boyfriends and my sister was angry with me, my friends would be there.

All those people who say Slytherins are evil have never bothered to look carefully enough.


	9. The Question of Taking Sides

**Chapter Nine: The Question of Taking Sides**

It was nearly three in the morning on a Monday, and I had yet to perform a successful stunning spell. Blaise, Nott, and I were in an abandoned classroom on the third floor and had been there since ten that evening, attempting to learn the spells required for our Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL. Tracey had been with us originally, but she'd figured out the spell somewhere around midnight and decided she wanted some sleep before classes. Blaise had also managed to cast the spell properly, but he remained behind to put out any fires I started.

We had no fear of being caught at least since Pansy and Draco were the prefects on duty tonight. As much as Draco despised me, he would never turn in his fellow Slytherins for being in a classroom after curfew.

"It's really not that hard," said Nott after I completely missed the ball I was supposed to be targeting and hit a desk instead, leaving a dark scorch mark on the wood.

With a flick of his wand, Blaise managed to make the mark disappear. "On the bright side," he said, "I'm going to ace my Charms OWL."

"You and Hannah both," I muttered.

"I see you two in Charms class," said Nott. "Abbott is good at putting out fires—maybe we should recruit her for these lessons."

"She already helps me with the Charms spellwork," I said. I didn't add that she was involved in the student rebellion against Umbridge and probably didn't want to start meeting Slytherins in the middle of the night. It wouldn't be good for her reputation.

Since no one trusted me to practice on them, Nott had spent the night rolling a rubber ball across the floor, while I attempted to stop it. I wasn't even sure how I'd managed to leave scorch marks on the desks—the stunning spell was supposed to knock a living creature unconscious or stop an object in motion, not create fire. My ability to mess up wandwork astounded even me sometimes.

"I wonder how people are going to do on our Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL," said Blaise, absentmindedly spinning his wand on the desk. "I heard Macmillan talking about getting the older students, who have already passed their OWLs, to teach the fifth year Hufflepuffs."

"Ravenclaws are usually smart enough to manage on their own," said Nott. "They probably have a study group."

"That's what Sue and Stephen told me." I raised my wand and pointed it at the ball. "_Stupefy_."

The ball shot across the floor, gaining speed rather than stopping.

"Raise your wand more at the end," said Nott.

"Why do I bother?" I asked. "Can I just get a Troll on my OWL and be done with it?"

"You'll do better than a Troll," said Blaise. "I've never seen you get more than two questions wrong on the written portion of a test."

"Theory is easy," I said as Nott rolled the ball again. "_Stupefy_." The ball at least slowed this time. "If I got an Outstanding on my written and a Troll on my wandwork, do you think I could at least get an Acceptable overall?"

"Aim for a Dreadful on the wandwork at least," said Blaise.

Nott rolled the ball across the floor again and I raised my wand. "_Stupefy_." The ball slowed.

"Well," said Nott. "This is at least closer to the ideal result."

"I'm improving?" I asked, incredulous.

Nott's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "Yes, Daph, you're improving."

I glanced down at the cedar wand in my hand and then back up at my friends. "I'm improving." I could hardly believe it myself.

"Congratulations," said Blaise. "But can we call it quits for the night? We all have to wake up in four hours for breakfast."

Nott nodded. Shadows were already forming under his eyes. I was sure I looked no better—I felt like I was going to collapse from exhaustion. We picked up our belongings and put the desks back in order before beginning our stealth mission back to the Slytherin dungeon. And by "stealth mission", I mean that we stumbled through the hallways, trying not to fall asleep before we got back to our beds.

We were on the first floor, heading to the stone wall where the entrance to the Slytherin common room was located, when a drawling voice came from behind us, "What's this? Students out of bed."

I didn't have to see to know who it was, but I still turned to look at Draco, his green and silver prefect's badge glimmering on his chest. He wore his usual smug smile as he looked over us.

"I could give you a detention for this," said Draco.

"Come on," I said, fighting back a yawn. "We're all tired."

"I'm obligated to report this," said Draco, not listening.

Did I really believe that Draco would report us? No. He cared too much about our house to risk Slytherin losing points over this. However, I hated that he was keeping us from our nice, warm beds and I snapped, "Come on, Draco,

"Nott was teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts spells," said Blaise. "Since Daphne is terrible, and Umbridge won't let us practice in class."

I expected Draco to sneer about how bad I was at wandwork, but instead, Draco blinked in surprise. "You lot teach each other spells?"

"Yeah," I grumbled, too tired to come up with a scathing remark. "We've been doing it since second year. Nott's really good at Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Through half-open eyes, I watched a smile form on Draco's face, and then he said, proudly, "We Slytherins should help each other out. My father teaches me Dark Arts spells when he can, and I try help Crabbe and Goyle." He scowled. "They're not very good students though."

I opened and closed my mouth. Through the five years that I had known Draco Malfoy, I had never known that he taught Crabbe and Goyle spells for class. And he was doing that between prefect duties and Quidditch practice. It was so out of character for him—at least out of character for how I thought of him—and I had no idea what to do with that information. Finally, I murmured, "Yeah, I can imagine."

"Umbridge is a bitch," said Draco, apparently not noticing my confusion. "She makes me miss the werewolf, if you can believe it. But at least she's taking this school out of Dumbledore's influence. At some point, we're going to have to take sides." He glanced at Nott, and there was something in his gaze that was supposed to be for just them, the sons of Death Eaters.

Whatever Draco expected from Nott, I don't think he got it, because Draco scowled and Nott said, "We should get to bed. We're all about to collapse."

Draco nodded but didn't say anything.

"Say hi to Pansy for us when you see her," I said.

Blaise gave the password, and the wall slid aside to let us inside the Slytherin dungeon. It was only when the door was firmly closed behind us that Blaise said, "Well that was weird."

I glanced over my shoulder. When I was certain that Draco wasn't eavesdropping through the stone wall, I asked, "Did either of you know that Draco actually spent time helping Crabbe and Goyle with classwork?"

Both Blaise and Nott shook their heads.

"You learn new things every day," said Nott.

"Some new things I don't want to learn," I muttered.

Blaise patted the top of my head. "That's because you don't like being wrong."

"That's like the pot calling the kettle black," I said, shoving Blaise's hand away. "You don't like being wrong any more than I do." I glanced at Nott. "What did Draco mean about taking sides?"

"It's a mystery to me," said Nott with a shrug of his left shoulder.

"It probably has to do with their fathers being Death Eaters," said Blaise with an apologetic look in Nott's direction. "Draco likes to act as if he's in the know. He probably assumes Nott's the same way."

"I was thinking it was like Dumbledore's army versus Umbridge's army," I said. "Eventually we'll have to choose a side."

Blaise snorted. "Does your brain have an off switch?"

"I'm just saying," I said. "There's a student movement against Umbridge brewing—I wouldn't be surprised if Umbridge rallied together the students who support the ministry soon. You know Malfoy would join a group like that in a heartbeat."

"A student movement?" asked Nott.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd owe you a sickle," I said. "Blaise can explain."

Blaise yawned. "As fascinating as your mind is Daph, I need to sleep."

He started towards the staircase, and after a quick goodnight to me, Nott followed him. I watched the two of them climb the staircases to the boys' dormitories before turning away and heading to my own dorm. Even after I had changed into my pajamas and curled up in bed, I still couldn't shake the odd feeling that had settled in my stomach. Not about the student movement and choosing sides. No, it was Draco Malfoy who had me lying awake in bed. I never would have thought that Draco would teach his friends wandwork to help them pass Defense Against the Dark Arts. It didn't seem Draco's style at all. He was a petty, selfish, arrogant ferret.

Blaise was right; I didn't like being wrong about people.

But I also didn't think I was wrong about Draco. I'd been in the same house as him for over four years, and I'd seen how he'd used Pansy's feelings towards him. I rolled over in bed. He was an asrsehole, and no matter how much he helped Crabbe and Goyle pass their classes, he wasn't going to be any less of an arsehole.

And with that settled, I could sleep easy again.

* * *

"Hagrid is teaching Care of Magical Creatures again," said Pansy as she slid into the seat next to mine at lunch a few days later. "And the High Inquisitor was there."

Blaise and I had gotten out of Arithmancy early, so we'd gone down to the Great Hall on our own. We were both almost finished with our lunches and planned to head to the library afterwards to get a head start on our Transfiguration homework; however, Pansy's announcement instantly put a hold on those plans. I always made time for gossip.

"How'd it go?" I asked Nott as he sat on my other side.

Nott, for some reason, kept his head down, and it was Tracey who answered my question. She dished some pasta onto her plate, saying, "It was a good lesson. Better than I expected. Honestly, Umbridge shouldn't find anything to fault him on, other than that, according to her, thestrals are classified by the Ministry as 'dangerous'."

"Thestrals are dangerous?" asked Blaise. "Don't they pull the carriages to the school? Shouldn't that be illegal if they're dangerous?"

I glanced over at Nott. "You learned about thestrals in Care of Magical Creatures?"

He nodded. His silence made sense now. If they'd studied thestrals, it no doubt came up that only people who had seen death could see them. Nott hated sharing personal information about himself—it was hard work for us to get him to talk to us, and it'd probably been torture for him to admit in front of his classmates that he had seen someone die.

I wanted to do something for him, or at least see how he was feelings, but Pansy was recounting how she'd told Umbridge that she couldn't understand what Hagrid said when he spoke, and it was impossible to talk to Nott right then.

"Hagrid isn't that hard to understand," said Tracey.

"Don't you want Grubbly-Plank back?" asked Pansy. "She's such a better teacher—you know it, I know it, all of Slytherin knows it. It's just because Dumbledore has a soft spot for that half-giant that he's still here."

Tracey bit her bottom lip. "Well, yes…"

"Hopefully Umbridge will fire him," said Pansy. "Then we can say some good has come of the High Inquisitor."

Blaise scowled. "Nothing good will ever come of having Umbridge here."

Rather than get into that argument, I stole a piece of potato from Nott's plate. When he stared at me, I asked, "You want to talk about it?"

Nott's eyes narrowed, and then he turned back to his plate. "Not especially."

"If you ever want to, you know we're here." I stole another piece of potato and then said loudly, "You know Umbridge wants to fire Hagrid, because he's loyal to Dumbledore. Whether he's a good or bad teacher has nothing to do with it. I bet he'll be gone before the holidays."

"She has to put him on probation first," said Blaise. "There's a system to these things."

"Well, I hope she puts him on probation before break," said Pansy. "I miss Grubbly-Plank already."

"What's everyone doing for the holidays?" asked Tracey loudly, trying to change the subject.

"Visiting Dad," I said, quickly. I really didn't want to get into an argument with Pansy about Umbridge's presence at Hogwarts, but from the sound of things, Pansy had been spending too much time around Draco.

"Going to Italy," said Pansy. Her parents traveled every year; they hated going being home for the holidays, and over the past four years, they'd been to Greece, Australia, Mexico, and Fiji, in that order. Pansy rarely stayed for the holidays, preferring to travel with them. Then she would come back after break was over and lord it over us that she'd seen more of the world than we had.

Tracey pulled a face. "I'm jealous. Italy sounds warm. We're going to London to visit my mum's family."

"A muggle Christmas?" asked Pansy.

Tracey shrugged. "My grandparents are rich, and they like spending money on the grandchildren they rarely see. I'll get a good haul from them."

"We're staying in Number Six's mansion in Scotland over the holidays," said Blaise.

We all turned to Nott, who had just taken a huge bite of potatoes. He looked around at the rest of us, gulped, and said, "It's the same as every year."

"Just make sure you give us all the updates on the Dark Lord when we get back," I said.

"At least you enjoy hearing what my father has to say," muttered Nott.

"Whenever home feels unbearable," I said, "remember that you're doing it for us."

Nott shot me an annoyed stare and then said, "I'll report back to you, but it comes at a price. No more stealing my potatoes."

My jaw dropped. "You snitch—"

"Stealing his potatoes?" cried Pansy, rounding on me. "What happened to our carbs rule, Daph? Don't tell me you've been breaking our diet again! I was going to let you go easy over winter break, but now I'm going to have to make tables of what you can and can't eat…"

I tuned Pansy out, since if Pansy did end up making tables of what I could and couldn't eat and forcing me to report back to her, I would just lie about it. Instead, I glowered at Nott, who was staring down at his plate and solemnly eating the rest of his roasted potatoes. Nott was usually my trustworthy friend, the one who would never rat me out to Pansy, but apparently Care of Magical Creatures had upset him more than he wanted to let on. I was dying to know what he was thinking, get him to explain what was going on in that head of his; however, if Nott didn't want to say something then the Dark Lord himself couldn't get the information out of him.

* * *

A week later, with the arrival of the crisp December snows, Slytherin flattened Hufflepuff on the Quidditch pitch. Adrian Pucey's goals had equaled all of the other team's combined, Crabbe had managed to send one of the Hufflepuff chasers to the Hospital Wing, and Draco had caught the Snitch from right under Summerby's nose. All of which meant, of course, that our house had to celebrate.

The Slytherin common room was decorated with green and silver banners, and the prefects had procured extra chairs for people to sit on. A long table was decorated with fake serpents and held plates of desserts. I loved free food, and our group of friends spent the afternoon in the common room. The problem with parties, however, was that people who didn't usually dwell in the common room were now there. Our spot was occupied by some sixth years (and since they were older, we couldn't kick them out), so we were forced to stand by the entryway. The Slytherin Quidditch team and their admirers stood not far from us, enthusiastically recounting the day's match. And some giggling first years stood on our other side, the girls casting admiring glances at Blaise.

After an hour, however, we managed to claim our usual spot by the fire from the sixth years. Nott took the armchair and Blaise and I sat in front of the fireplace, while Tracey and Pansy went to get some more snacks (though I wouldn't be surprised if Pansy got sidetracked, listening to Draco brag about his miraculous catch—he calls it skill, I call it getting lucky).

"It's a shame they can't serve butterbeer at these parties," I said, stretching my legs out in front of me. "But the professors don't want the ickle first years to get their hands on it."

"The sixth year Quidditch players smuggled some butterbeer into their dorm room," said Blaise. "They're charging five knuts to anyone that wants some."

"What a rip off," I muttered.

"I heard they also have some firewhiskey," said Nott. "But that's for team members only."

"Of course. I expect nothing less of those pricks."

Nott glanced down at me, eyebrows raised. "You could probably convince Adrian Pucey to give you some."

That made Blaise laugh. My eyes narrowed as I looked between the two boys. They'd been like this at the Quidditch game too. It started with Pansy and Tracey snickering when I'd cheered for Adrian's goal. Their laughter got to the point where I was wondering if they were conspiring with Astoria behind my back. Blaise and Nott must have asked them what was going on, because soon all four of my friends were enjoying some inside joke at my expense. I wasn't a complete idiot though. If my friends were laughing whenever I cheered for a bloke, it meant they thought there was something going on between me and said bloke. Since there definitely wasn't anything on my end other than me objectively thinking Adrian Pucey was fit and wanting to be friends with him, then it had to be that Adrian Pucey fancied me.

Hippogriff shit.

"I'm not asking Adrian Pucey for anything," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "So you lot can stop giggling like first years."

That shut Blaise and Nott up, at least.

"Besides," I said, "what's so funny about Adrian Pucey fancying me?"

"His taste for one thing," said Blaise, not missing a beat.

I elbowed Blaise in the ribs. Nott was sitting in the armchair, out of reach of my elbows, so unfortunately, I had to settle for glaring. "Anyone would be lucky to fancy me, you gits."

"You mean unlucky," muttered Blaise. This time he was ready for my attack and blocked my elbow with the palm of his right hand.

"And we feel sorry for the poor bloke who ends up dating you," said Nott.

That hurt. It surprised me how much that statement hurt. I was fine with the joking and all the talk about fancying people right up until they actually talked about dating. Because, in the end, I knew they were right. I felt sorry for the poor bloke who ended up dating me too. He'd probably end up with who traveled to get away from him or clung to him as if he were a floatation device, because I didn't know a damn thing about relationships—

"Daph." Blaise placed a hand on my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts. He was looking at me with concern in his dark eyes.

"I'm fine," I said, shaking the negative thoughts away.

Nott leaned forward in the armchair, saying, "Sorry, Daph. I didn't mean it like that."

"Right. Yeah, I know." I didn't blame him. I knew it was just some playful joking.

The three of us sat in silence for a minute. Me, wallowing in self-loathing. Blaise, wallowing in worry. And Nott, wallowing in regret. We must have looked like a pitiful group, but thankfully, Tracey arrived right then with eclairs and cream puffs to heal all our wounds.

"I made it!" said Tracey, taking a seat at the foot of the armchair. She placed the plate of desserts in front of her for us to share, saying, "Pansy made us watch Draco reenact his catch. He had Goyle playing Summerby. You should have seen Goyle trying to act like clever. I think he even went cross-eyed at one point."

"Is that where Pansy is?" I asked. I took a chocolate éclair from the plate even though food was the last thing on my mind. Eating at least gave me something to do.

Tracey nodded solemnly. "I tried to save her, but you know Pansy. She has a one-track mind. In the end, I made the hard choice between Pansy and getting the last of the cream puffs."

"You made the right choice," said Blaise.

I looked over at Nott, expecting him to make an obligatory comment about how there was no saving Pansy from Draco, but Nott's brow was still furrowed, deep in thought. No doubt he was eating himself up over his thoughtless comment.

I listened half-heartedly as Tracey shared some gossip she'd heard about Harry Potter and Cho Chang fancying each other (a subject which of course shut me up). Blaise didn't care about the school's dating gossip, but he enjoyed tormenting me and taking some of my money, so they continued on the subject of whether Potter and Chang would officially get together for some time. Then, Tracey started complaining about the amount of homework fifth years were given and how she couldn't believe how fast the final tests before the holidays were approaching. And at that thought, Blaise decided he needed some butterbeer from the sixth years. Tracey went with him, wondering if she could wheedle some firewhiskey out of them, which left me alone with Nott.

He glanced sideways at me, his hazel eyes narrowed with thought, but after a moment, he seemed to think better of it and looked away. Perhaps, I realized, Nott had also been wanting to talk to me all this time. But before I could get my mouth open to ask what was going on, Nott said, "I shouldn't have said it, about you being bad at relationships. You know I don't really believe that."

I tried to smile at him, but I think it turned out more of a grimace. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't mean it," I said. "We all say stupid things when joking around. You know how many times I've insulted people while joking around?"

"You call people 'mudbloods' as a joke," pointed out Nott.

I sighed. "I've told you a thousand times that I say 'mudbloods' as a way of criticizing the stereotype of Slytherins a future Death Eaters."

"By fulfilling said stereotype?"

"It's a work in progress," I muttered. "I should probably revise my methods." I leaned back, stretching my legs out in front of me, and stared up at Nott. "You shouldn't feel all guilty over a stupid comment. I'm fine. Or as fine as a nutcase like me can be." I grinned. "What about you? How you doing? The holidays aren't far away."

Nott scowled. "I sent my father a letter asking to be allowed to stay here."

"What'd he say?" I asked.

"Never going to happen," said Nott. "Travers and Avery are going to be there, and my father wants to introduce me."

Judging by Nott's grim expression, this wasn't good news. I bit the insides of my cheeks, hesitating, before saying, "They're Death Eaters, I take it."

Nott nodded.

"You know all that stuff I say…" I took a deep breath. "About wanting you to keep us informed and all that. Don't take it seriously. It's just me saying stupid stuff. You know me."

"I know," said Nott. "I never take anything you say seriously."

"Hey!" I kicked his shin lightly.

He smiled down at me. "Kidding."

"Write to me," I said, "over the holidays. You can complain to me about your dad and his pixie-shit friends. You know I'm always in the mood for a good rant."

"I always write to you over the holidays," pointed out Nott.

"And your letters are always so sort! Tracey always fills out a good roll parchment, telling me about every mundane thing her family did. Pansy, as you know, sends me well over two pages, detailing eating regimes and her new plan to get Draco's attention. Even Blaise manages a full page, telling me about the goings on in Zabini household. But you!" I sent Nott a ferocious glare. "You never write to me first, and when you do write, it's about three sentences, saying 'All's good' and 'Happy holidays'."

Rather than look ashamed like I'd intended, Nott only said, "But you ask us all to recount everything that happened over the holidays when we get back to Hogwarts anyways. There doesn't seem much point in writing a full letter."

I glowered at him.

Nott smiled. "I'll try better this time. I promise."

"Daphne!"

Tracey's slightly shrill voice broke our conversation short, and we turned to see her and Blaise standing together, looking over at the far end of the common room where a crowd had gathered. Tracey was nervous, her fingers knotted together as she kept glancing to us and back to the across the hall. Blaise only looked straight ahead, his brow furrowed and his eyes intense.

Nott and I exchanged puzzled glances before we got to our feet and went to see what had our friends so worked up. As I walked past the clusters of other Slytherins, I realized that while Nott and I had been talking, a sort of hush had fallen over the common room, and everyone had slowly started to pay attention to this group of people standing underneath the tapestry of a great green serpent.

"What's going on?" I asked Tracey in a whisper.

"Listen!" She grabbed my arm and turned me so that I was facing the crowd.

Graham Monatgue, the captain of the Quidditch team, seemed to have had a bit too much firewhiskey. His cheeks were a little red as he stood at the front of the crowd, speaking in a booming voice. "What has Dumbledore ever done for us? If you think that old man gives a rat's arse about us Slytherins, then you're in the wrong common room."

"You tell him, Graham!" some seventh year from across the common room shouted.

I frowned, standing on tiptoe to see who Montague was talking to. Blaise tapped my shoulder, and I leaned back so that he could whisper, "Some fourth year named Harper told Montague that Dumbledore wasn't 'all that bad', and Montague started yelling at him about how Dumbledore's a 'bloody bastard'—his words not mine."

"When has Dumbledore ever stopped the other houses from treating us like shit?" continued Montague, his voice filling the hall, reaching every Slytherin even if they didn't want to hear him. "You've heard the Ravenclaws whispering that we're all future Death Eaters. You've heard the Gryffindors saying they should just throw us all in Azkaban as soon as the Sorting Hat declares us Slytherins. I'm not joining up with You-Know-Who. None of us are! But does that stop those pricks from saying so? And has Dumbledore, that bloody bastard, done anything to stop the other houses from saying stuff like that about us?"

I winced with each word that Montague said, because at some point, I had said them too—though maybe not in the same way. I hated hearing my own words come out of the mouth of someone I despised.

The poor fourth year just stood in front of Montague, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. Montague was right—Dumbledore didn't care about Slytherin—but he didn't need to yell all this at the boy.

"Someone should stop him," said Tracey. "Harper was just stating his opinion."

However, no one was making a move to end Montague's rant. Most of the older students remained in their seats, watching Montague yell with vague expressions of disgust and curiosity. I could see Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle on the far side of the room. Draco seemed faintly amused by Montague, and I wondered if this was a conversation they'd had a Quidditch practice. On either side of Montague, Cassius Warrington and Miles Bletchley were grinning at the poor fourth year, enjoying his discomfort. And the crowd that surrounded Montague, which looked to be third and fourth years who were still young enough to idolize the Quidditch team, were almost all cheering in support of his words.

I glanced back at Blaise, and he shrugged. Should we do something? Or should we let Montague blow off steam? He'd probably get tired soon enough and return to bragging about the Quidditch match.

It was Nott, actually, who started moving forward, but before he could take more than two steps, a clear voice from the crowd said, "Graham, stop. You've made your point." Adrian Pucey stood a little behind his captain, frowning.

I blinked in surprise. I knew Adrian Pucey was an all right bloke, but I didn't expect him to speak out against his friend.

However, Montague wasn't done yet. His voice filled the common room as he rounded on Adrian. "Right. I forgot that we have a Dumbledore supporter in our midst."

"Graham," said Adrian, his voice tense with impatience. "You know that's not true. You've had too much—"

"I've told you over and over again," said Montague. "The Ministry's finally taking action. They've realized they can't let a crackpot like Dumbledore keep running our school. That's why they've brought Umbridge in—"

"So you want to replace Dumbledore who favors Gryffindor with Umbridge who favors Slytherin?" snapped Adrian. After a second, he seemed to think better of himself and he said, pleading, "Come on, Graham. Let's call it a night."

For a moment, Montague looked like he was about to agree with Adrian. His eyes were drowsy from the firewhiskey, and he sort of staggered forward, nodding ever so slightly. But then—then, some idiot red-haired girl in the crowd cried, "At least with Umbridge, the rest of the school with know how we feel!"

With those words of support, Montague lifted his head, and all the anger came rushing back. "The Ministry will set Hogwarts right again!"

The third and fourth years around Montague were nodding and voicing their agreement. One of the even said, "Umbridge for Headmistress!"—which is something no sane person would wish upon us. Harper had fled as soon as Montague's attention was on someone else, but Adrian remained, his arms folded over his chest and a stiff expression on his face as he listened to what the crowd had to say.

"Montague's had too much to drink," said some seventh year girl from one of the armchairs. "Sure, Dumbledore's not perfect, but anyone's better than Umbridge."

One of the boys sitting next to her shrugged. "But the Ministry might manage to straighten out some of the backwards rules in this place. Maybe Potter will stop being rewarded for his rule-breaking, and Gryffindors will have to remember that they're on the same level as the rest of us."

The girl groaned. "Don't tell me you're on Montague's side."

"I'm not on Montague's side," said the boy.

"Well that's what it sure sounds like!"

I didn't want to listen to any more of their fight, but as I looked around the common room, it seemed that a handful of similar conversations were taking place among the older students. Slytherin house was divided, it seemed. Half the students wanted Dumbledore to remain, preferring a wizard who actually cared about our education even if he favored Gryffindor house. Slytherins had endured the other students' dislike of them for years before now; what wasn't acceptable was a professor who refused to teach us magic. The other half of the students were ready for the Ministry's interference. While no one else had mentioned wanting Umbridge as headmistress (thankfully), they certainly didn't seem to mind the idea of Dumbledore being replaced. Equality among the houses, seemed to be the general thought. I heard a couple pureblood elitists saying that the Ministry would set Hogwarts straight, but for most part, those people were ignored.

"I hate to say it," said Blaise, "but it looks like Draco was right."

I groaned, and Nott looked repulsed at the idea of Draco being right about anything.

"Right about what?" asked Tracey.

Blaise nodded in the direction of the crowd. "We might have to end up taking sides."

"Just let me know what side Draco's on," I muttered. "I'll be on the opposite."


End file.
